There’s a fuckin epidemic sweeping across our nation and it needs to be stopped. Someone get the motherfuckin CDC on the phone in dis byitch. Is their number still 1-800-HELP-BITCH-HELP!? No, I’m not talking about ebola, whooping cough, or Birdman flu. That last one is similar to the bird flu, except this particular disease makes your dumb ass rap horribly and make god-awful cockatoo-like sounds as a replacement for hooks in your songs. Those aside, the epidemic I’m spittin about is fancy ass fucking food. I’m talking about flavored foams, popping “caviar style” liquid bubbles, and making shit look or taste like some shit it shouldn’t look or taste like. Im talking about that molecular gastronomy bullshit. If you’re a cultured, refined, and well traveled motherfucker like me, then you know what the fuck I mean. But you’re probably not, you dirty derelict. But hypothetically, if you was, you go to a dinner, get a bunch of one-bite dishes of some picasso-on-a-plate looking bullshit, eat it, don’t know what the hell you just ate, pay $200, and then go hit Del Taco or In-N-Out after. This fuckery has gone too far.
BLING BLING BYITCH!
Ya’ll know me. I enjoy talking about any shit under the sun. Even things like cars, tech, and other materialistic things. But the reality is, it’s like window shopping for me. I’m thrifty as a mother fucker. Just talking about it more than satisfies any curiosity I have about those things because I learned at a young mother fucking age to save my money, live within my means, and get a good fucking deal when it finally was time to buy something.
This shit goes back to my youth. When I was young and wanted some dumb ass G.I.JOE SR71 Blackbird or Zap-it disappearing color water gun or whatever, my dad would always make me trade something in exchange for it. Sure I could have that water gun if I took out the trash for 2 weeks straight. Or mow the lawn a few times. Or recited all the motherfucking states in the U.S. a thousand times.
YO BABY DUMB.
I’m a dad now, so my life has drastically changed in the last few months. Some for the better, some for the worse, but irreversibly changed, nonetheless. When you become a dad and you’re as motherfuckin observant as me, you notice things. You see things. And you know what I see? Dumb fuktard parents buying up useless expensive shit for their dumbass babies, all to try and feel like they're being good parents.
Look, I grew up in a house where I literally thought we were going to be on welfare every day. My parents made it seem like we were a fucking pack of Upper Deck basketball cards away from being broke, and it wasn’t until only recently that I realized that they were pretty well off. I should mention they’re both doctors. I guess I should’ve known earlier, but they were (and still are) so goddamn cheap that any motherfucker would be fooled.
ASSHOLE MUSIC.
So this dumb cockroach looking motherfucker Lil Wayne wants to release 7 albums next year. This motherfucker looks like one of those voodoo shrunken heads and shit. Bitch you look like my mop.
Similes aside, this is the problem with music today. Namely hip-hop and pop. What the fuck happened to the artistic motherfuckin integrity of music? Correct me if I’m wrong, but music is still an art form. Art takes inspiration. Art takes hard work. Art takes trial and error. Art takes failure after failure. I can’t even turn the radio on anymore because the bullshit coming out my speakers sounds like two mating hippos in autotune. Dumb fucks like this guy put out albums in a day, talking the same stupid bullshit over shitty GarageBand tracks. Bitch I recognize that loop, I’ve got it on my iMac too, ho. I change the station and some other reggae-wannabee-POS was screaming “Me put me lighters in dee air. Me waive dem shits round like me juss don't care.” Bitch, I care. Put your fucking lighters away you’re contributing to global warming, ho. Rastafarians need to learn mo’ bettah’ English.
FARMERS MARKET, HO!
Since living in LA for the last 10 years, I’ve realized two things:
1. There’s a fuckload of Priuses out here.
2. You can't walk 5 feet in LA without hitting a goddamn farmers market.
So the other day I'm cruisin through a weekend market when I see a vendor for stone fruits. There’s samples lined up for miles and kids are sticking their filthy grubby hands into the bins, spreading their hand, hoof, mouth disease or whatever all over the place. And I look up and I’m like WTS (dass short for what da shit, ho) are all these fruits, bitch?! There were varieties like a motherfucker there, and most of them with crossbred-ass fruity names like mango-habanero-pluots, bubble-yum-gum plums and watermelon-purple-nurple peaches and shit. Bitch if I’m eating something called a watermelon anything, there better be a slip-n-slide within 10 feet of that motherfucker.
DEEZ JORDANS.
In nineteen-eighty-motherfuckin-nine I was in the fifth grade. Straight ballin. Michael Jordan was (and will always be) the greatest player of all time. If your dumbfuck ass is too young to understand that and is even thinking about saying the word Lebron in my online presence, then stop and punch yourself in the fucking face. Seriously. So I had begged my parents for a year to buy me a pair of Jordans and after my slave-driving dad forced me to mow his piece-of-shit 2 acre lawn like 10 times, he finally agreed. We went to the store, strapped those shiny bitches on my feet (2 sizes too big because my parents were cheap as fuck), and headed home with a smile on my face. This would be my year.
The next morning I rolled to school in them, wondering how they would be received. My expectations were annihilated when this dumb fat kid in my class ran up to me and screamed at the top of his lungs “HOLY SHIT YOU GOT THE JORDANS! YOU’RE AWESOME!” I tried to play it off like I was embarrassed by the spectacle caused by his fat fucking face, but really, I was thrilled with his incredible instant mass marketing campaign.