Monday, August 24, 2009
I'm also beginning a couple of new projects. The first, has officially begun today. I'm going to be writing for, and being paid by the trufan network to write about Southern California basketball, mainly the Lakers, Clippers, UCLA and USC, albeit I'll pretty much have free range on the blog and write about whatever the hell I want to write about. I posted my first blog today, which you can read here, and will maintain the same name as this blog. Please check it out and I'll keep you updated via facebook, myspace and, when I get around to creating my account, twitter.
The second project is currently in the works right now. I'm working on creating a blog that is all about California basketball. Lakers, Clippers, Kings, Warriors, USC, UCLA, Stanford, CAL, smaller D1 colleges, and some high school coverage. I'm hoping to have that site up by the end of September. Right now I'm working on how I want the site run, recruiting writers (please let me know if you'd like to contribute to any of the afore mentioned teams or if you know anyone who would be interested), and networking with other bloggers to help get the site some readership as soon as possible. It all begins today and I'm excited. It's going to be a lot of work, time consuming and stressful considering I'm going into my last school year, will still be covering as many sporting events as possible for my school's newspaper and contributing to talkhoops.net for everything I write outside of California basketball.
I'm still debating on whether or not I want to continue my education into grad school, but It's looking like I'm going to make a pass on that, so I got to get on my grind now and pound out as many words, up as many blog posts, and have as many by lines as possible before I graduate (292 days, but who's counting).
It's the dawn of a new era ladies and gentlemen.
Monday, July 13, 2009
I think there has to be a point in everyone’s life where you go through something so brutal that you just want to do brutal things to other things. I think, although I may be a little extreme at this point, this non-texting experiment is that point in my life. No joke, as I type this intro to days seven through nine, my phone is actually vibrating. I’m sitting in Boarders, my down the street sanctuary to get away from everything, and like a dumb ass I brought my phone with me, something I usually don’t do. It seems as if the longer I go without sending a text message, the more violent the vibrations on my phone become. This flimsy table I’m sitting at almost fell apart. The vibrations are loud and aggressive to the point to where the two older women at the table in front of me both turned around to see what the ruckus was. “It’s just this damn phone, ma’am,” I said to the women who looked like the eldest of the two. I want to throw this shit across the room and hope to hit the obese gentleman who I saw earlier in the Health & Medicine portion of the store. Every text I get, especially the hilarious ones or the ones about sports, makes me want to take a kitten and throw it against a wall, or a chain linked fence. I sound like a drama queen now. Not texting is not a good idea.
I just woke up on the day that will complete my first whole week of not texting, and woke up to a message that has been one of the hardest not to respond to. “I just saw the episode of family guy where the dude was like ‘I bet you can’t do this’ while he was shimmying in the mirror. Hahahahahaha.” Very few people know why this was so hard to respond to. A few years back, my sister and I were flipping through channels and came across this cartoon we had never seen before. As fast as we could ask what the hell the show was, we were in tears because Tom Tucker, the news caster on Family Guy was shirtless in the mirror saying, “I bet you can do this,” before he proceeded to shimmy. My sister and I joked about that scene for years and barely found out that it was Family Guy a year ago. I can’t believe I can’t text her knowing this is the first time either of us had seen that scene since the first time we saw it. It’s killing me that I can’t respond, however, life continues.
I just got a text message from Celia that says, “Mark Nessia was having a good day… until he got on the scale. Definitely not recession proof.” Mark Nessia was my photo editor who got on our nerves on the school newspaper (Celia was the sports editor). Anything about Mark being fat or someone or something not being recession proof is going to crack me up, the simple fact that she combined both in one text message is killing me with laughter. Speaking of something not being recession proof, we’ve pretty much been calling everything recession proof lately and laughing at people who claim to not being recession proof. The NBA just announced that the salary cap for the 2010 season is going to be lower than expected. If the NBA isn’t recession proof, you’re definitely not recession proof (© Celia Kelly). Needless to say, I wanted to come back with a joke of my own, it’s what we do. But I can’t. Sad day.
I’m starting to realize that I’m glad that I didn’t commit myself to not reading these text messages because it would be damn near impossible. To be completely honest, I haven’t not looked at a text message since July 5. I’m interested in what people have to tell me. I guess if I had less interesting friends it would be much easier to ignore text messages, but I have surrounded myself with hilarious people who send hilarious text messages; well except for Dayshell, who happened to text me today telling me to tell Davion to call her. Why in the hell would I do that? He thinks she’s just as annoying as I do, but she calls him her brother. How corny is that shit? I’m not going to have some lame ass 20-year-old girl calling me her big brother. Dumb.
“Dude pitching for the Rangers right now is fat, Mexican and has a gray goatee. His money can’t be recession proof. Shit, the Rangers money must not be either if he’s playing.” What do I do if I’m not able to respond to shit like this? I play Kanye’s “Heartless” because that’s what Celia’s become sending me things like this. I mean, I appreciate the laugh, but it’s just not fun when you can’t comment back. Having a phone with internet, an MP3 player, speaker phone, games and a camera without being able to text, I assume, would be akin to dating Eva Mendez, but she’s not giving up the booty. You get to be seen with her gorgeous ass (and touch it from time to time too), you know you’re living large because she has bank and all of your boys are jealous; but you go to sleep every night mad as hell. I don’t even want Eva Mendez anymore.
At 6:54 a.m. I got a text message that started off with OMGOMGOMGOMG! There was no way in hell I wasn’t reading that (I have to be up at 6 a.m. every day to get to work on time, if I was sleeping in and got a text that early I’d throw a kitten at a brick wall). I just sighed, closed the message and went about the rest of my day. I think my spirit has been killed. I’m not even getting mad at getting not being able to respond anymore. If I were a POW and they were trying to get some information out of me, this is the day I would have broke and spilled all of the information. I’m not broken in the way to where I can’t take it anymore, because that would make me a bitch; I just don’t care anymore.
I thought I didn’t care until my sister sent me a text that just said, “coon.” If anyone outside of my circle sent me some shit like that, I would be forced to beat them to a pulp, but it’s hilarious coming from my sister. This text message is akin to me about to spill the beans as a POW and the guy interrogating me burning a cigarette on my forehead right before I spoke. There is no way in hell I’m helping out a dude after he burns a cigarette on my forehead just like I’m not going to be able to hold back my frustration for not being able to respond to these messages. I need to take shots back at my sister. I’m being bullied right now. I’ve officially began my countdown. Just five more days until I can respond. I’ll be back. I’ll be me again. I can’t believe I just typed those last two sentences. When did texting become “me?” Yikes. Either way, five days, Ashlyn. Five days.
Friday, July 10, 2009
They say a dog is a man’s best friend. I have a dog and I can tell you from first hand that they are wrong. They are probably scrubs and losers with no discernable friends to begin with. They probably played with those magic cards in elementary school or own the “Lord of Rings” book and DVD series. They don’t have hilarious friends. I’ve had my dog for the better part of the last three months and can tell you that my best friends still are my best friends. Thelonious, the name of my bum ass dog, still, and will always remain, my dog.
However, my bum ass, stupid ass dog has grown on me. Before you start thinking about how fucking adorable that is, keep in mind that the phrase “has grown on me” is going to turn out to be as cute as herpes. I’ve become accustomed to him pissing me off, and I don’t think I’d have it any other way. As crazy as it sounds, being pissed off at my dog at all hours has reduced the amount of stress in my life. As I type this, my dog is sitting in the kitchen barking for no fucking reason. In moments I’ll be forced to get up from my desk (well, my $15 dollar foldable table from Target) walk over to the kitchen and calm him down.
“What the hell are you barking for?” I’ll ask as I walk into the kitchen. He’ll look up at me with his tail wagging waiting for me to untie him and let him roam free around my apartment while I write.
“You know you’re not even supposed to be here, keep barking and I’ll be forced to put you out,” I continue. “If Brittany hears you (the manager of the apartments), she’ll be pissed that you’re here, but more because I’m slick enough to sneak a dog into my place without paying the $500 deposit.”
“WOOF!” he’d bark, with that stupid ass look on his face. I’ll then pull my hand back, and he’d sit down, with his tail still wagging as he looks at me blankly.
“I don’t think there is any way you could be less intelligent. You’re presence is intellectually unsatisfying,” I’ll say, hoping he understands me, but he won’t because he’s a dog, and dogs don’t speak people. “You know I’m not recession proof, $500 would pretty much bankrupt me. This recession is your fault – you bastard.”
“WOOF! WOOF!” his dumb ass would bark, then I’d be forced to threaten to murder him with the frozen orange that’s been cooling in my freezer for about as long as Thelonious has been a roommate. Then he’d stand back up and try to jump on me, forgetting that he was tied up, then be jerked back by the leash, reminding me of how stupid he is. “WOOF!” His bum ass would continue, forcing me to smack his nose, which would invariably be followed by a whimpering “bark” and him understanding what the hell I want him to do.
“People ask why I haven’t taught you to sit yet, and I tell them it would be a waste of my damn time because you’re a dog, and dogs are stupid,” I’d say, knowing how much I verbally attack him, he’ll still love me. “I’m going to go back to my table, because I can’t afford a desk because of the recession you’ve caused, and you’re going to sit here and practice shutting the fuck up.” Then I’ll come back to my table, and finish writing this damn blog.
In a phone conversation with my sister about a week ago, she asked if I loved my dog, and I said, “no.” This is the truth, because I do not love my dog, I actually hate him, but this is not a bad thing. I need to hate my dog in the same way that my dog needs to chase birds every time I take him outside to take care of his business. I once wrote that I believed that hate fueled passion, and you needed to be passionate to love, and you needed to passion to live. Without hate, I would not be able to live. Hate, I could argue, is much more important than love. Love is not necessary to live, because it is a passion, and passions are fueled by hate.
I need my dog because he reminds me of things I love that I may have otherwise been taking for granted. Like my love for not having children, my love for a clean apartment, my love for peace and quiet and my love for inspiration. My dog serves as birth control, a cleaning mechanism, motivation to get my ass to a library or book store and the inspiration to write something like this. I know that I’m going to be able to compare my hatred for my dog to my hate for other things like the Denver Broncos, Chingy and what television has become.
As much as I would love to take him to some orchard and bust his head open with that frozen orange, I know there is no way I could because I need him around. He makes me appreciate everything I have, and that’s what’s most important in this economy that he’s created because the things we don’t have are going to remain the things we don’t have. I may have a stupid ass dog, but I have so much more than that and you do to. And if you can’t realize this, then maybe you need to go out and get yourself a stupid ass dog too.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Breaking habits, I’ve come to realize, may be one of the toughest things to do in life. Learning to not dribble with your head down and keeping your elbow in while shooting free throws have been easy compared to not texting – and I still find my self looking at the floor when I have my mind set on getting to the basket and my elbow still flairs a tad bit to the right when I’m fatigued at the charity stripe. Logic would dictate that I have no chance at going eight more days – which seems like a lifetime considering that the first three days felt like 12 days and the second three days felt like a decade. Here are those next three days. Days 7-10 will be posted on Friday.
At this point, not texting has become as much a part of my life as my apartment, my bike, my job and working out. Not texting has become a daily routine, and things are not different because it’s Independence Day. To this point, I’ve become obsessed with my two week quest of not texting. I’m proud of this ridiculous point I’m only trying to make to myself. I tell people that I spend my lunch breaks not texting. When people ask what I’m doing, I tell them that “I’m accomplishing a goal by being on the phone with you.” Can you blame me? Probably, because all of this is self imposed, but I don’t care.
I woke up earlier than expected today because of how late I was up the night before and forgot that the women’s Wimbledon Final was on that morning. I caught the end of the last set and wanted to text the two friends I know who watched it. Then again, I don’t. I’ve just realized that I’m more obsessed with creating temptation for myself than actually not texting. I want it to be hard just so I can say “I had all of these text messages I either wanted to send or wanted to reply to, but I didn’t.” I just love challenges, even if the competition is essentially with myself.
I just got a text message from a friend telling me that Steve McNair died. This, to me was tragic because McNair was one of those quarterbacks that come around only once in a lifetime. Dude was a Heisman candidate at Alcorn State, a HBCU! He was a consummate teammate and he’d have to be paralyzed not to play. He was a football player in its truest form. A man who went to war with his teammates, and in return for his mental and physical toughness, his teammates went to war with him. I want to text so bad right now. I have no internet and I’ve been boycotting television for a couple months now, I need details. I need to know how he died. I’m checking my phone’s internet for details.
I spent the rest of the holiday missing phone calls that, for whatever reason, never went through to my side and not texting the same people. I ended up NOT hanging out with Jessie, who had just got back in from Vegas only because I couldn’t text. Oh well. This is what I set myself up for, I suppose. It feels as if the days are only going to get harder.
I just walked into my kitchen this morning and it’s filthy – which is funny since I just cleaned this shit two days ago! This has nothing to do with me not texting, but since I couldn’t text my disgust with anyone, you have to read about it. I lived with more women than men for the majority of my life, and now I find myself pretty much living with three other dudes who don’t clean shit. I’m not the cleanest dude in the world, but damn, we’re living like pigs in this bitch. Hold on, my mom is calling.
My mom is on her way. Again, this isn’t important to the story. I look at our disgusting kitchen and decide that it’s not worth attempting to clean. She knows I live with a bunch of dudes. I’ll just blame it on them, and the leftover alcohol in the freezer from Friday night. After a quick chat we go out to eat and I get a text from a friend. I don’t read the whole message, or even the preview. I just looked at the name knowing I could call her later since I couldn’t text her at the time anyway.
It turns out my friend’s dad was having health problems and just needed someone to talk to. I feel terrible, especially since my phone fails to receive her phone call later that night. I may have underestimated the affect this non texting is going to have on other people. In fact, I’ve had about four friends tell me that it’s been killing them knowing that I’m not going to text them back because they have questions they need answered at times that it wouldn’t be convenient for a phone call. Or they need my opinion on something. All of a sudden, I have friends, and only because they know I can’t communicate in the most convenient way possible. The irony burns, especially since I know all of these wild events are going to blow over by July 15. MJ’s death, McNair’s death, NBA free agency and much more will all be old news, and new news will be boring again. I hate my life.
It’s about 9:45 p.m. and I’m completely rewriting this post while my dog blankly stares at me while I’m on the phone having a conversation about why I’m not talkative. Early on July 6, I had my Day 6 post pretty much finished, ready to be posted whenever I felt like on July 7. However, I got some text messages from two of my five favorite people not affectionately named Mom that forced me to change my Day 6 post.
At about 7:20 p.m. Celia sent me a text message that started out with the Phillies-Reds score (a 22-1 pummeling of the Reds). Since she has started her internship, she’s become a baseball fan, so I was interested in her insight on the first real beat down of one team over the other since she became a baseball fan. What I didn’t know was she would add “and make sure you write you read this whole text too. Bwwwaaahhhhh. LOL” and follow it up with her smiley face that says, at least to me, “I’m kidding, but I’m not kidding.” She’s sly, or cunning, like a fox, or something. That was just a slice of her non-humble pie. Very few people know me well enough to know that I would appreciate something like that, even if it was just to spite my text fast.
However, another of those people is my sister. When we were younger she used to say that I was that hot dog in those Weinersnitchel commercials. I’m not going to lie, it bothered me a little because the hot dog was so fucking lame, and a hilarious thing to call someone. Well, she sent me a text after reading my post that started out with her making fun of me riding my bicycle to work on the daily then her saying, if you don’t respond to this you’re the Weinersnitchel hot dog. 10 minutes later, after receiving no response from me, she sent me another text that said, “you just got punked” and continued saying hot dog over and over again. I have thick skin, and I only have my sister to thank, because she can be one of the cruelest people with words. After a couple decades of Ashlyn, there really isn’t anything anyone can say to me that can make me feel bad, which is why I haven’t beaten my friends asses, because they all think they’re hilarious.
Either way, it’s 11:55, well past my bed time and I’m waiting for Celia to call me back so we can finish this recession proof conversation (funniest I’ve had in weeks), and I’ve realized that I need to be careful what I wish for. I wanted this to be tough, and now my sister and Celia are playing with my sanity in the same way Karla Homolka played with little girls. It’s almost torture, because they know as well as anyone that I like to take shots back, but I can’t without my ability to text or call back while they’re working. It looks like we’ve just opened up a whole new can of worms.
"Do you understand that these are people who will never forget, the people who lose their father or a brother or a relative? They or their children or even their children's children. Do you want to see your son killed someday in an airplane explosion because we've made Iraq a terrorist nation from what we've done? Consider the terrorism that could be done in this nation. A guy with a bomb can just drive into the Lincoln Tunnel or walk into the Sears Tower and kill thousands. Is this what you want to see and have it affect your children or their children? "
-Phil Jackson to the '91 Bulls after he asked his team if they wanted the troops to go into Baghdad and go after Saddam Hussein as the Persian Gulf War was nearing an end.
Is there any way we can get Barack Obama to read pages 210 and 211 of The Jordan Rules? For some reason, after walking my dog yesterday evening, I was feeling a little more anti-war than usual, then I read this today. Can we please get our men and women out of the Middle East and let them live their lives over there so we can live ours peacefully over here? I want to love our president, but I'm not recession proof and I hate war -- especially when the war is unnecessary (but is it ever?). I'm going to get back to this book, but e-mail your president or something. This madness has to end. They're people, too, over there. Things would be a lot easier for all of us if we just live and let it be.
Monday, July 6, 2009
On June 30, I wrote that I would attempt to go two solid weeks without sending one text message. What I didn’t say was that I would try not to read incoming text messages, which has been indefinitely harder than not sending any myself. The following is documentation from the first six days of the experiment.
I woke up this morning with two text messages in my inbox. One was from Celia from late that night asking if I was asleep, which I clearly was since I did not see the message until the next morning. The other was from Amber responding to a text I sent her earlier in the day on the 20th, nothing I really needed to respond to (by the way, I get previews to every incoming text message, the first 35 characters. I read the previews, and sometimes that’s the whole message, the longer messages are the ones that are hard to ignore). Things aren’t too bad so far, however, I keep taking my phone out of my pocket checking it. What is the point? Even if I do have a text message, it’s not like I can respond or even call, considering people actually have jobs these days.
Again I woke up to a text message, this time from Travis asking me what I was up to. In case none of you knew, I’m one of those early to bed, early to rise type of dudes since I have to ride my bike to and from campus, where I work for eight hours and work our for another two. If it’s past 10 p.m. on a weekday, you can count on me being asleep.
I’m working and going through my daily rounds of the sports websites. The LA Times website just gave me my first true test, I’m reading about Ron Artest verbally committing Los Angeles to play for my Lakers and Trevor Ariza will be going to Houston. It is taking a lot out of me restraining from texting every basketball fan in my phonebook. I want to brag to non-Lakers fans and get opinions from the few friends I had who were Lakers fans. To be honest, I just want to text. It’s only halfway through the day and it feels like it’s been five days. These are going to be the longest two weeks of my life. I can’t text during the NBA free agency period, I’m as broke as I’ve been in over a year and I work at what may be the most boring job in the world.
The week just got longer. As I sat there jotting down these notes, Celia sent me a message that said, “Keyshawn Johnson is terrible.” It is taking every ounce of will in my body to not respond to this text message. Celia may be the queen of random hilarious text messages that may or may not have been intended to make me laugh, but she never fails. It hurts to not be able to respond to this knowing that I can’t call either because of her internship. Just a simple “LOL” would feel so much better than a luke-warm shower after bike-riding home in 234 degree weather. I’m dying.
I realize why I’m doing this. I finally don’t wake up to a text message, but I do get something that looks like it could be one of those forwarded chain messages. It’s about Lady Gaga, and I’m sure the punch line to the joke is going to have to do something with poking her face. Blah blah blah. I don’t really have a problem not reading this full message because chain messages are the scum of text messages. If text messaging were like school, texts about sports would be my major, pointless conversations with my female friends would be my sociology minor and chain messages would be like taking a fucking Geology class. I almost went four solid years without having one prototypical, stereotypical boring-ass college professor, and in a the class that I cared about the least, I finally get one. God he was awful, and he made sound affects for things that shouldn’t have sound affects. I’m realizing the affect text messaging is having on me – random tangents. My geology class has nothing to do with my self-imposed sanction on text messaging, I just have nothing else to do.
I get a text message from Dayshell. I met Dayshell in high school and she used to like me back then. I never really gave her much time, and I talk to her from time to time just to give her a hard time, which I really shouldn’t do because she’s pretty much in love with me (seriously). However, she’s pretty much the antithesis to “the girl I would date.” She doesn’t really like sports (even though she pretends she does when she talks to me), she listens to terrible music and she doesn’t read. She isn’t a stupid girl, but she definitely isn’t an intellectual, which you HAVE to be if you can’t make me laugh, which she most definitely can not – and I can say all of this, because she doesn’t read, so I don’t really have to worry about her reading this, and if she does, I don’t really like her like that any way, but I digress. I mentioned her because she is the epitome of why I hated text messaging to begin with. Since joining my school’s newspaper three years ago, I’ve become somewhat of a stickler for grammar, and have a hard time reading things without point out grammatical mistakes (even re-reading my shit, which I know there will be a lot of in this post, I’m terrible at editing my own work). Anyway, she loves starting off text conversations with “wut u doin” Not one word spelled correctly and no punctuation at the end of a fucking fragment sentence. I understand shorting some words to have shorter messages, but I don’t appreciate fragments and intentionally misspelled words. It’s not hard to put a “g” at the end of doing. It’s not hard to put an “r” in there to say what ARE you doing. It’s not hard to add a fucking question mark. I don’t have a bigger pet peeve than this. Dayshell just made Day 3 much easier than it would have been if she didn’t piss me off. Thank you Dayshell.
[Considering people don’t like to sit and read the same post for longer than 20 minutes, I’ll post days 4-6 tomorrow, and you’ll have days 7-9 on July 10th.]
Word Count: 4065
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
(Note: before you read the next paragraph, please realize that A) I am fully aware that I am somewhat of a nerd, B) I work at an incredibly boring job, and C) I had nothing else to do)
For some reason, I haven’t deleted a single text message from my phone since the beginning of September. I don’t think any phone should have the power to hold the number of text messages that I’ve received in the last month, much less almost a year’s worth. In that month of September, I sent 238 text messages, an average of just about eight text messages per day. Since June 22 until Noon on June 30, I sent exactly 500 text messages, an average of 62 and a half text messages per day. 446 of those were from women, and 23 of them were from ESPN giving me updates on the Giants (since without a special package, I rarely get to see Giants games televised). 32 of those text messages were from dudes, and of those 24, six were from guys I either work with or I write for, which leaves 18 from guys who are actually my friends (and that number was only that high because the NBA Draft just happened).
Now, I don’t see any reason why I need to be sending out a quarter-ton text messages every eight days, that’s almost the pace for 2,000 per month. I realize nearly 75 percent of my friends are women (yes, I did go through the Myspace and Facebook friends lists and added all of my friends who I ether text from time to time, or who I’d hand out with on the weekends – I love numbers and I can admit it), but again, there is no reason to have over 500 text messages in a week’s time.
So, I’ve come to the conclusion that, starting July 1, I will go two solid weeks without texting anyone, which means, from the time I pay my rent until the time I get paid again, I’m not sending anyone any texts. It’s going to be a hard, grueling half-month considering that my propensity to text instead of call has grown to a point I would have never thought it would reach in a million years (you know, because, I’m under the impression I can live millions of years). I’ll be documenting my struggles without my once hated, but now needed text messaging, maybe a new post every two or three days. It’s going to be epic, but hopefully I’ll come out of this with an independence that I’ve never had before. I remember the days where I could just leave my phone in my room for hours and not worry about it, now, I can’t even wear basketball shorts without pockets (because I’ll never wear a phone clip) for fear of missing a message.
From tomorrow morning until the morning of the 15th, if you need to get a hold of me, don’t text, because it won’t be responded to. I’m going to do my best to even resist the temptation to look at them. It’s about to get serious folks. Hopefully I can last (that’s what she said).
Slaughterhouse, a group consisting of Joe Budden, Joell Ortiz, Royce da 5’9’’ and Crooked I, dropped this ridiculous group freestyle over the D.O.A. beat. Everyone was enjoyable, but by the time Joell Ortiz got off the track, the track, the beat had been murdered. It was a ridiculous performance from Ortiz, I was just in my office bobbing the hell out of my head ignoring my duties until this 18+ minute track finally ended (yes, over 18 fucking minutes!) I’ve liked a lot of what I’ve heard from what they’ve put out as a group, and I LOVE their mixtape, but if they keep putting out shit like this, they’re going to become my favorite hip-hop group of all time. I can’t wait for their album to drop next month. They’re all talented lyricists with something different to offer, what is what separates them from other groups. There is either one really good artist and a few bums or everyone sounds the same, groups like this are far and few between.
If you guys have 18 minutes to spare, it is well worth it. Check it out. Below I’ve posted my favorite lines from everyone.
Royce da 5’9’’
I just don’t sound raw
I disconnect your shit and have you walking around with Bobby Brown Jaw
And then Whitney said ‘crack is whack’
And it offended me like, floozy, why you dissing my music?
I swear to God I was placed in this decade by mistake
I don’t belong here
Dad fucked mom in the wrong year
Wrong nigga amongst fans with wrong ears
Wrong trends, with funny sounds every song sounds weird
Wrong fashion, it’s like every nigga has gone queer
I’m in tune with what the gutta loves
I get on beats and son niggas like a mother does
They hear me and are like ‘aiyo, that brotha’s bomb’
They hear you they like ‘oh no, not another thug’
You chase bitches who don’t want a scrub
I’ve fucked project bitches on the roof with a rubber glove
We two different dudes
I be getting praised you be getting booed
I feed niggas, you just niggas food
You be getting chewed like whack grits
Every time I’m getting chewed it’s a bad bitch
Pistols say we in combat
I spaz out like a crazy
It’s young cooked
Yeah you had a leg but my punk took it
Now you hip-hop ‘cuz you one footed
Monday, June 29, 2009
Matthew started a Pillow Fight with you.
Matthew has started a Pillow Fight with you! You can give up... or you can accept the challenge, pick your pillow and hit back! Let's see who wins!
4 hours ago · Comment · LikeUnlike · » Hit Back «
The above is not a joke. I really did have a friend on Facebook named Matthew Todd. And yes, this fucker really really tried to start a pillow fight with me via Facebook.
At first glance, I didn't really notice it, I just thought he posted some shit about sea turtles, but the second time I saw it, I was like, "What the fuck?!?"
I can't imagine me ever wanting to engage in a pillow fight, let alone with some dude who I really never talked to in high school. I mean, I knew who he was, so I accepted his friend request, but had I known he was going to be electronically pelting me with sea turtle pillows, I would have never added him to begin with.
I can't think of anything gayer than starting an electronic pillow fight. Actual gay people are less gay than electronic pillow fights. I don't think I am comfortable enough with my sexuality to start an electronic pillow fight with a girl, so there is no way in hell I'm going to tolerate some dude starting one with me. I mean, why would you even consider that shit? Why? I am at a loss for words.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
You may have already read 7,635,425 blogs and articles answering the pressing question of: Will the Shaq for Cracker Jacks trade work for the Cavaliers. The short answer: No. And that's all you're getting out of me on that one. I'm here to answer a more interesting question: Is Shaq the luckiest big man of all time - or are we the lucky ones?
With Shaq moving to Cleveland, he is paired up with Lebron James, the fifth time the Big Something or Other (© Celia Kelly) has been paired up with a great parameter player. It started in Orlando with Penny Hardaway, he moved to Los Angeles to play with Kobe Bryant, moved back to Florida to play with Dwyane Wade, shifted his weight to Arizona and played with Steve Nash and is now with one of the most freakish athletes we've ever seen? Again, I ask, who has been luckier, Shaq or us?
Off top, it seems like this answer would undeniably be Shaq. However, we've got to see the greatest center of this era, and one of the most candid athletes of all time, play with some of the most exciting basketball players of the last decade, and we're just months away from seeing him team up with the most exciting in the game now.
Has a center ever been more blessed to play with more future Hall of Famers than Shaq? Kareem got to play with Oscar Robertson and Magic Johnson. Wilt played with Elgin Baylor and Jerry West. Russell played with Bob Cousy. Olajuwon played with Clyde Drexler, but that was at the end of his career. The most exciting perimeter player Robinson played with was Rod Strickland, and had Ginobili as a rookie as he was leaving the league. Ewing had John Starks, Xavier McDaniel and Larry Johnson. None of those lists jump out at you like Penny, Kobe, Wade, Nash and Lebron - no second name needed for any of them.
[Click here to check out the rest of this article at Talkhoops.net]
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