No disrespect to anybody that visits this wack azz site, but if you are younger than 32yrs old this post will mean nothing to you.
There is this wild sense of deja vu that has been circling my brain for the last year. Not that wack azz track by pop tart JAYONCE. It’s like the feeling that we are repeating everything that was a social problem in the 1980’s On a global level I see the re-emergence of Damascus and Tehran as two knuckleheads that need the boot in their azz to help them get their minds right. Domestically I see an administration that is captained by a wacky, half-witted commander in chief who can only dominate staged photo-ops.
Do you remember RONALD RAYGUN? He wore cowboy hats and talked tough like he knew how to hold a six shooter. Later on we found out that he liked to watch cartoons and pooped his pants. My 18month old godson does that too, but none of us are going to be electing him governor of New York this fall.
The worst thing that RAYGUN left us with was a ballooning debt that couldn’t even be mitigated with the equity that the nation held as it’s greatest asset – it’s people. We tumbled into a recession where the stock market stalled and real estate actually depreciated. To numb the pain of broken promises people turned to the cooked up version of the classic anesthetic. I can remember these days from several different perspectives and the most important one has me telling you to be prepared for the worst.
Not armageddon, or civil war, but another complete abandonment by the federal government. The day care centers and after school programs which are funded now by only a sliver of a budget will be getting no love from anyone in D.C. unless you get off your azzes now and demand these programs. The first step that needs to be taken in order to have your voice heard would be for everyone that reads this blog to complete a new voter registration card.
First, we must all register as Republicans.
Another blow was struck to all of you folks that actually work for a living and are of the mistaken hopes that somebody in the government will give a fuck about you when your azz is gnarled and grizzled and can no longer punch the clock.
Atlanta based Delta Airlines has filed a motion in federal court to terminate the pension plans for all of its pilots. Delta’s argument to the fed’s is that they will face an operational crisis if they have to continue to fund this program that has approximately 13,000 participants. Delta also has pension plans with their flight attendents (sky hos) and ground staff (neggars). I secretly wonder if this is Delta’s way of punishing all their pilots that had sex with the hooker cum stewardess(I know, same job) who is writing that tell all book from her days as a Delta flight attendant.
The fucked up thing is that I like Delta way better than bootlegg azz AirTran. At least Delta doesn’t overbook their flights and they let you drink your whole can of soda. AirTran gives you a paper Dixie cup of sugar water and a piece of stale street pretzyl from a NYC hot dog cart.
Delta is banking on Congress to reform the pension legislation that allows employers a buffer period to make the contributions to their employees. If the Senate and the President don’t fall in line with the airlines Delta may have to saddle the U.S. taxpayer with their pilot’s pensions and benefits. Sounds like some more Silverado Enron Iraqi Reaganomics.
RONALD REAGAN is like the TUPAC SHAKUR of U.S. fiscal policy. He hasn’t been president for almost twenty years, but he is still dropping interest rates like TUPAC drops new albums.
One of the best things that NIKE has done for me is when they re-issued the Dunk Hi shoe. Ten years ago, I begged them to bring the shoe back in a heartfelt and personal letter.
My words were heard and felt by some intern whose responsibility is solely to read the letters of crazy-in-love sneaker stans like myself. That is why I show the highest respect to my INTERN. They do what they do for the love of the game. Yeah, they want fame and fortune too, but they understand that dues have to be paid and possibly through that process their break may come.
That’s what happened to the intern at NIKE that read my letter. He took the time to find out what the Dunk shoe was about. By learning about the shoe and its history he was able to talk to the right people at NIKE to restart the process of having the shoe re-issued. Now there is a whole new generation of Dunk Lo fans that have no idea how nice DWAYNE ‘PEARL’ WASHINGTON was.
That’s all good because there should be new heroes for the next generation. Whether its skateboarders or graff writers or whomever it is that influences and inspires young peoples, I’m just happy that some anonymous young intern at NIKE took the time to read my letter.
I was at a bar in Brooklyn last nite and I ran into one of the internets great legends, COMBAT JACK. As we both enjoyed the sights and sounds he ruminated on why no malt liquors had ever made it to permanent nightclub or bar lounge status. I told C.J. that I was working on a drop that talked about the best malt liquors ever and as I began to describe the post he told me a true story. I was cracking up after he recounted the story and I asked him if he wouldn’t mind doing a drop for the site. This is a special treat for you kids. Here in his very own words is your boy, COMBAT JACK…
This summer has been real sweet out here, what with all the parties, free concerts, and your usual summerish events (other than the ridonculous heat wave that has had niggas, chinks, spics, jews, jihadi’s an’ cracka jacks roasting together like some big ole multi-culti blunt).
Anyways, as we approach the last days of this season, I’ve found myself reminiscing on my glory days of summers past. You know, like around ’93, ’94, when legends such as The Notorious B.I.G. and a young Nasir Jones were just starting to make names for themselves, while their West Coast counterparts like Dr. Dre, Snoop and N.W.A. were heating ish up in my walkman, and I could not, for the life of me land a record deal for one of my then clients from
Brooklyn by the name of Shawn Carter. On one particular Saturday (I think it was ’93), I was on my way to meet some folks at Central Park to enjoy a free concert featuring the then sane and hot Blast Master K.R.S. One. At the time, my favorite brew of choice was Private Stock (today, I rocks Heineken and/or Grey Goose). Man, a 40 oz. of Private Stock, chilled and frosty was an elixir incomparable to beverages like the aforementioned Goose or the Cristals of today.
Anyways, St. Ides was making a big name for itself because niggas from East to West were claiming how a swig of that mead would have one buck whilin’ like a Jherri’ed up O’Shea Jackson with gat in palm. In addition, the St. Ides Brewing Company (based in Pennsylvania) had been hiring cats like EPMD, B.I.G., Ice Cube, Tupac and members of the Wu to record ill ass commercials that were as hot or hotter than some of the actual records niggas was dropping. I decided that, on my train ride from B.K. to Manhattan, I would sample a bottle of the famed beverage and see what the hype was all about. New York City was still not in full Guiliani mode so there were some of the simple pleasures left to enjoy like drinking on the subway. You couldn’t beast out of course, but if you were smooth with your style you could get that one off.
Man, I tell ya, after taking about 6 swigs, a nigga started sweating like an effin slave (the train car had a.c. too) and by the time I polished the joint off (as I reached my destination), I was mad hyped up, comfortably numb and hearing loud ass beats in my head. Being that it was a hot day in the sun, and I tend to be a sweater (I sweat more than the average cat), my crew kept asking me whether I had been pumping gas since I was emitting an ethanolish scent. On top of the blunt I shared, my essence was not at all inviting to the pretty birds I was trying to bag that day. No doubt, my buzz was akin to tripping out on some light hallucinogens, and I felt mad invincible and brawlic as shit, but smelling like a smoked out gas attendendant was not on my agenda. Needless to say is that I returned to indulging myself with the P.S. and I left the 93 octane to the kids who didn’t know any better.
Funny shit is, a year later, an ad agency reached out to my girl (now my wife) and requested that she appear as a model for the upcoming B.I.G. St. Ides commercial. After discussing the possibilities, and although our song was Big Poppa (we played it at our wedding) we both decided that it wouldn’t be a good look professionally for either of us. I can admit now that secretly I imagined my girl coming home smelling like a gas attendant. Little did we know that that ashy nigga would go on the be the G.O.A.T. and we would have had some classic footage to share with our grandkids, but like they say, hindsight is 20/20. Anyways, I leave you with some vintage St. Ides commercials including the one featuring Christopher Wallace. I guess it’s safe to say the light-skinned bird in his commercial was 1st runner up.
