The Hostile Negress Fashion Ministry Presents: Easter's Finest

Easter is a comin' and if I know my audience like I KNOW my audience, you're all good, Christian, church-goin' folks.

*raises hands to the sky and shouts * EYEEEEAH GLORY!!!!!!

We all know Easter means just one thing - well maybe a few things something to do with blood of the lamb and resurrection or some jazz - but PRIMARILY one thing: Church. Fashion.



Halleleuuuuujah!


Well we here at THN like to take care of our audience. You don't think I would have you falling up in the pews of Ebenezer Holy Ghost Touched By An Angel Bethanny Bible Holy Gospel Trinity AME lookin' a hot steamy mess do you? No - my soul won't allow it!I put my Fashion Ministry on the case and dug up some looks for you (call me at 424-555-2033-30303 for deets)

You don't have to thank me - I do it for the love of the game:



Killin' 'em oh so softly with the lavendar...


Better yet the magenta (all magenta ERYTHANG game proper...)


Shittin' on these batches from high above...


...and layin' batches down low with the hat game! (Cicely Tyson stand BACK.)

And last but not least, I'm gonna toss a little bonus in there for ya:


BLAM!

Ok, that last one was just some seedy tea I tossed in there because I'm a pure bastard in my heart. But I promise if one of you all shows up to Easter services with Patra's old errand-running braid wig on, I will drop and give you 50 ON THE SPOT.

In the interim between now and THAT particular episode, feel free to call me about any of the above fashions, and make sure to work on your calesthenics in preparation for the annual aisle dance.

EYEEEEEAHHH GLORY!

From the "That's Unfortunate" files...

They couldn't come up with another name, seriously?


I wonder if the stripper who was winding her post-twin cellulite on The Ultimate Warrior Chris Brown last week is a member...

Remember that dude from the Jacksons miniseries? Yeah, he's currently working as the Crypt Keeper's stunt double

For years I've crying out to the heavens for a part two of my and every red-blooded American negro's favorite TV miniseries, "The Jacksons: An American Dream." (What are you gonna do Joseph , get a switch off a tree? Go to bed Joseph. Go. To. BED!)

There's plenty of fodder - lord knows, the topic of Jermaine's "hair" evolution deserves its own series and possibly a summer course at UCLA - but for reasons unknown, the TV powers that be have decided instead to focus on bringing us such treacle as Real World Season 430: "We're not even gonna pretend this is a show anymore," in which they just toss five horny white people in the back of a tractor trailer with some condoms, a bottle of syrup and a night vision cam.

But you don't hear me though.

Anyhow - if you love the lawd like I love the lawd, you've watched The Jackson miniseries everytime it has ever come on and recognize the above face well.

Now here's what you WON'T recognize:


Got + Damn= THIS.

Yes. This is how 2011 is doing a brutha. I wouldn't get on the other side of that finger - something tells me whatever he points to is going to die. SOON.

This is an ad for the MAC Men line Little Richard has been I've been advocating for if I ever saw it. If there's not a 190 brush and a pot of N43 with this brother's name on it at a Macy's in Ventura then this just ain't America.

After spotting this recent and rare image of Death making a guest appearance - and feeling fairly certain that this man was deep in the throes of ebola or the bubonic plague or something - I went to that font of universal accuracy known as Wikipedia to get the scoop.

Shockingly, there were no references to a deadly disease which might cause one to look like the Grim Reaper's less attractive cousin, but I did happen upon the following sadness:

Jason Michael Weaver (born July 18, 1979) also known by his stage name J-Weav (STOP RIGHT NOW - Luv THN) is an American actor and singer. .... He also appears as an extra in the music video "Rock Yo Hips" by Crime Mob featuring Lil Scrappy and "Make Up Bag" by The-Dream featuring T.I.

The last time I saw Diamond from Crime Mob, she was at Cascade in some leggings and house shoes swinging some highly suspect yaki.

If my coins were in any way attached to that fuckery, I think I'd be lookin' like a wayward Rwandan under the eyes too.

As you were - which if you are J-Weav, looks a lot like this:

In Case You Missed It: The Bobby Brown Comeback is in Full Swing. Blank stare.

ARC Music is taking shit TOO FAR.



Even Bobby looks confused.

I think I need to readjust the proportions on my hookah-Seagrams-Xanax cocktail because shit is really slippin' past me. Apparently while I was on the toilet or something, Bobby Brown sneaked into the studio and made some "music."

*dramatic pause*

While I want to support his return from Snowshoe Mountain (I believe in his newly powder-free nostrils!) I must say that I'm a little confused on this one.

I want to go on record as offering a bag of hope and a Stacy Adams gift certificate to the first person who can explain what exactly this song is about. I listened to it once.

I contemplated.

I listened to it twice.

I contemplated.

Still, I don't know what in hell Bobby's chortling about. Something to do with getting out of his way so he can get to the front of the cocaina line so he can keep rising to the top or something. Uh, yeah.

Meanwhile, his once golden singing voice (such as it never was in any dimension) is currently reminiscent of the type of growly/rattle that last landed the Honda at Meineke.

Aren't these the same stunt queen antics that got him tossed out of New Edition back in '84? I guess you can't blame a dude for trying - it's not like he has other career options and lord knows if his waistline is any indication, he's got to keep his Red Lobster's coins stacked high. Snow crab legs and rice pilaf don't pay for themselves.

Personally, I still think he should just put his Body Magic on and start learning them Chi-Lites steps so he can go on tour with the rest of the middle aged men who should probably have a row of seats right now New Edition.

*yawn*

Ho Burger is a hit in Texas. In other news: "Life" canceled, "Hope" returned to sender

Personally I prefer "Ho Burger" but I understand Amber Rose has copyrighted that name, and given her considerable status as a relentless golddigger and opportunist businesswoman, she would be highly likely to sue.

Is Mya at least making a little money off this? Lil Wayne? Any of the nation's pre-eminent whores?

'Fat Ho Burgers' Opens in Texas: MyFoxHOUSTON.com

From Fox Houston:

WACO, Texas - You can get hot, juicy burgers with crispy tots or fries at a new restaurant in Waco, Texas. But it’s not the food that’s getting the attention at Fat Ho Burgers. That’s right. The restaurant is named after a fat (as in hefty) ho (not the garden tool). .

I mean, really? Where is my vial full of The Blood. I feel an annointing coming on.

"It’s not calling people a ho. It’s just like they say, 'Oooh that ho is big,' or, 'That ho is tight!’” said Lakita Evans, the restaurant’s owner.

The 23-year-old worked her way through college to open her burger joint and said the name is mostly a bit of humor in an otherwise serious world.

Ok, Ok, bet. I mean, Lakita has a point. And more importantly, Lakita has not allowed her outrageously ratchet name circumstance to limit her job opportunities to pole dancing. To that I say, ashe.

Oh wait. She said this too:

"Look what’s going on in Japan. It’s like clear this world is not gonna get any better. Why cry and be depressed? The economy is bad. Somebody gotta keep a sense of humor around here,” Evans said. For now, that means grilled favorites including the Sloppy Ho Brisket or the Supa Dupa Fly Ho with Chz for a lunch crowd that’s spilling out of the front door.

And that's what we're working with nowadays.

I hate black people so much right now. Obama, I thought you were gonna fix this???

PS: Do they have carmelized onions? Because if they do, well then that might change things...

Of ashy strippers and Miami Vice suits: I'm calling for a prayer circle 'round Chris Brown

Christ be a heavy blanket, a Xanax and a pistol. This 2012 end of the world shat is REAL. If you had ANY doubt:


What in $1.95 stripper hell? In the words of Riley Freeman: HELP US OBAAMAAAAAAA!!!!!!



Well I don't know about you, but I feel urged to slather shea butter all over my screen in a hopeless effort to moisturize that severely parched knee.

This young brother is truly truly troubled. I mean, his money can't buy better than that weave and those Rainbow boots? We need to just lift him up and annoint him. We'll leave Shontquashia's obvious spiritual needs for another day, but that tub of industrial strength shea butter will definitely be involved, as will the efforts of our Weave Ministry.

I'm just gonna go ahead let the one brother's face just say it all on this one. And from where I stand, his face is saying something about shame, ancestors, grandma nana, Dr. Martin Luther The Kang, debit cards and canola oil.

Gotdamn. I need to go lay down.

Ginuwine compares Aaliyah to Beyonce (A THN "Ninja Please" moment)

Awww damn, Ginuwine is flaring up again. I keep telling you, no matter how long it's gone, and no matter how smooth the skin looks, you got to keep taking the pills and using the cream-gel, or else your Ginuwine is gonna come back.

You would think they would have a cure for this by now.

He tells AOL's Boombox

"Aaliyah was in a class by herself," Ginuwine tells The BoomBox. "If you're talking triple threat of a writer, singer and actress, that would probably be Beyoncé. If Aaliyah were still here, she and Beyoncé would be neck and neck."

Oh Elgin. Why you still bringing up old shit?


Aaliyah is dead.
Lauryn Hill has gone bananas.
Sighted women are having sex with Gucci Mane.
And Rihanna is strangely a star for something that doesn’t involve a pole or the words “clap clap.”

Life sometimes can be confusing. You may find yourself frightened in a world that seems strange and disorienting, much like Chris Brown’s new blond hair. But we got to just move on with our lives boo!

And with that in mind, I urge you to duck back down into your mole hole Elgin – because it has NOT gone unnoticed that you are still trying to séance your career back to life (you didn’t think this whole post was about Aaliyah? Girl bye, she’s in another dimension drinking Lokos and plucking her nose hairs right now – wholly unbothered).

No, this post is actually about the sudden Ginuwine outbreak. Don’t get THN wrong – back in the “In Those Jeans” days, Elgin was ridin’ high. That video was DOOOOOPE. But lest we forget from whence my shade floweth, let me just remind you of THIS little incident the other month:



Many doves cried over that one.

Until Mr. ‘wine decides to make reasonable music befitting a man of his advanced age, I will continue to remind him of his Code Lavendar irrelevance status and warn him not to leave his home again. You are a ghost. And ghosts have to stay in Phantasmagora.

As you were.

Mashonda (and her crotch) cover King Magazine

I said in my heart that I wasn’t going to go there with this.

That I was just going to keep seeing the Twizzler-themed Wonder Woman redux picture splashed across the Interweb and avert my eyes. That I was going to ignore Mashonda’s obvious grab for dominance of the superhero couture fashion world and have a glass of milk and a prayer instead.
But I. Just. Can’t.

Someone, anyone, explain to me what in the 15-inch crotch, tape-tuck HAYLE is going on in this picture? Is Mashonda coming out as intersexed or something? Because that tuck is implying that there’s a little something going on in the belfry, if ya know what I mean. (Eh? Eh? Am I right! Ahhh whatever.) And why are her thighs squoze together this way? Does she need to pee?

Does she have a baby crowning? Don’t just sit there snappin’ booty shots – get this woman to an ob/gyn!

I like thickness. Everyone likes thickness. When have you heard someone say something like “Send this milkshake back, it’s too damned thick!” or “Could you please thin my hair out stylist, it’s too thick!” or “I would love Steve Harvey, but his moustache/lips/nose/accent/fade is too thick!” (shade fever)

Anyways, I say that to say, this is not a question of thickness, so no shade is being thrown at her honeybaked thighs. The laser precision side eye is being directed toward the obvious disrespect that King Magazine has for my status as an esteemed graduate of kindergarten. How you have a 44Z cup, Lane Bryant thighs and a Tweety Bird waist boo? Yeah, that doesn’t really happen.

Angel Lola Luv you say? Buffy the Body you say? Nicki Minaj you saaaaay?

Again I repeat – that shat does NOT really happen. Now sheisty queens swindling unwitting broads out of their coins and into a lifetime of latex poisoning care of dirty needles and Avon-style bootie “enhancement” parties? ? Now THAT happens ALL THE TIME.

Meanwhile, am I the only person who recalls THIS Mashonda over the past 32 summers:


(and don't think for a SECOND the ash on that knee has escaped my sight...)


I will overlook you going from Hershey to Original Recipe in the skin tone department. But the Blood of the Lamb won’t let me ignore that your girls look a lot less “vavavavoooom” and much more “napping quietly after a hot toddy.”

I would hum swing low sweet chariot, but that would just be tired.

Photoshop won’t let my ocular nerves be great. At. All.

*shrug* I just thought somebody should know.

(PS: Bitch if you only KNEW the glamosity of the leotard I have on under this suit you would understand how foolish it is for Mashonda to ever think she could mean ANYTHING to the high fashion superhero game. *swirls cape and stomps off in silver knee-high boots*)

THN hits 100! (And while you were sleeping ...)

This. Happened. In. America.


Why won't Chapstick sponsor this man? It's just the right thing to do.

What better way to mark the 100th post of THN (milestones people, milestones) than with the delicately understated, classical beauty of Gucci Mane.

In the immortal words of W.E.B. DuBois: Killin' 'em with those lips, better yet those golds.

Gucci Mane, we salute thee.

Chris Brown goes James Evans on GMA - and other shat we saw coming

Look at me now indeed.

Well we all knew it was coming. Hiding behind those endearing beaver teeth and that non-threatening Spike Lee "Do The Right Thing" flip-billed cap, The Hulk was still lurking. Waiting for just the right moment to rip a door off the hinges or tear a phone book in half or raise hell at Cinnabon when they forget to put the little side container of cream cheese in his bag (Ja Rule deserves better than your customer antics, thank you).

According to TMZ, by way of ABC, by way of some staffers scared shitliss Brown was gonna bite them, the Fame artist went all James Evans in the episode when he had hypertension (chair, meet wall) when an Good Morning America interview kept veering back to the whole Rihanna punchy punchy, facey facey, arresty arresty incident.

I hate when people bring up my felonies too. It really wasn't that much heroin, I mean, really.

But the real fun unfolded after the interview.

ABC sources told TMZ:

Brown freaked out, storming into his dressing room and screaming so loud, the people in hair and makeup became alarmed and called security.
We're told Brown was out of control, and one source present tells us he smashed a window in his dressing room, and the glass shattered and some shards fell onto 43rd and Broadway.
We're told by the time security rushed the area, Brown had ripped off his shirt and left the building, blowing off another performance he was supposed to do for the ABC website.

I'm gonna rip my shirt off the next time I experience poor customer service at Ruby Tuesdays. Bet they put some stank on it and get me my potstickers in a timely fashion then...

Now far be it from me to condone such behavior or ever give the green light to his attack on The Redheaded Scourge of Barbados. But all I'm saying is that someone needs to consider a key factor that is playing into Brown's behavior:




Have any of YOU ever been there? Of course you haven't. Because it requires a time machine similar to what Urkel used to become Urkell on Family Matters and only four negroes are allowed in or out of the place a year. There's a gas station. A water tower. And another gas station.

The largest city nearby: Richmond, Va.

And if you know Richmond like I know Richmond, that is NOT a good look.

I'm not saying that he's right for his continued rage against the machine. But I'm just saying if you'd been raised in the Land of Never After, where Juneteenth has yet to arrive, you might be a little bananas too.

Oh and if Rihanna gave you herpes. That might also burn your rolls a little. Literally. (I need sleep)

The Hostile Negress Defines: "Craccent" (or Crackcent if you're nasty!)

CRACCENT (or CRACKCENT in northern regions): Refers to the dry, crackly, echo-filled, husk of a voice of a former crackhead which lingers regardless of how long the person has been clean. Think of a person gargling with glass, smoking a box of Black-n-Milds, going to sleep for eight hours, waking up and then immediately yelling through a megaphone in backwards Romanian. Often carries a vaguely echo-like quality (think Wizard of Oz) resulting from the user having smoked their entire lung setup clean away and a scratchiness reminscent of speaking on a really bad cell phone or a Bluetooth. Subject may last have smoked in the 1970s, since giving their life to jaysus, snatching up a job at the local clinic and sporting a side part and sensible slingbacks. Yet the moment the person opens their mouth you know they spent some time gettin' "beamed up" if you know what I mean. Often incomprehensible and always loud.

Well-known craccent sufferers include Samuel L. Jackson, Frankie Cole and Jim Jones' moms. See video.

Hostile Negress calls for a moratorium on man nipples (yesterday!)

His nipples. My eyes. The future of our nation.

I feel almost as violated as that poor wooden lion tucked stuffed snuggly in the boglike sweatbox of his muscle crotch. *In Uncle Ruckus voice* Why lawd, why??????? If there is a Heaven in the sky, I hope he owns that damn thang.

I'm not gonna try to break this down for you. I'm too busy finishin' up a grape twin pop and singing "We've got to pray just to make it today!"

Just let this be a warning of what happens when you don't tithe - don't give Jaysus his dough, and he'll snatch up your sight like THAT!

Tell me you won't see this in your sleep tonight! My face will be origami'd for life.

Meanwhile, there's a Steve Harvey link to this fuckery.



(PS: I disagree with Jamie's usually spot on analysis. Steve Harvey, while strongly resembling a youthful James Earl Jones, is NOT shaped like a busted hot water bottle. He's actually shaped like a hot water HEATER. Way different.)

Jermaine Jackson penning Michael Jackson book - and other shameless efforts to make money off the dead

I take a few days off to have my lady bits serviced and take my cat to the psychic, come back and find Nate Dogg done died, Japan exploded and Jermaine Jackson (henceforth refered to as JermJack) and his Bart-Simpson-Gumbie hybrid hair are back on the scene.

I thought I told Dr. Mephisto to lock the lab UP afterward?!

From AP:

Touchstone announced Wednesday that Jermaine Jackson's "You Are Not Alone: Michael: Through a Brother's Eye" will be released this fall. Touchstone, an imprint of Simon & Schuster, promises a "faithful and loving portrait," but one with "no subject off limits."
Jackson spoke in 2003 of wanting to write a memoir and reports surfaced again after Michael's death, in 2009.
Sisters Janet Jackson and La Toya Jackson also have books out this year.

At the risk of exposing myself for the cynical, bitter, rude bastard I am, I’m going to go ahead and ask: Am I the only person who really doesn’t think there’s much more to learn about Michael Jackson that we don’t already know? I mean, this book could reveal that he was intersexed, bipolar, had a Maury Povich-style-hiding-behind-the-dresser clown phobia and married his pet mouse Ben in a ceremony at the Mormon Temple in Bethesda overseen by the Rev. Run and featuring Bubbles as his best man and I would be like



Nucca was on another level that is as of yet discovered by most humans. I think that much is clear.

The real question is why the Jackson family refuses to give us what we REALLY want, indeed, what generations of NASA scientists the world over have been clamoring for: A clear, concise, scientifically sound and decisive explanation of what comprises Jermaine Jackson’s hair. Sure we have our theories – Let’s Jam hair gel mixed with shoe polish. Magic Marker. An industrial grade polymer-clay-gel mixture trademarked as Plasticine. But why can’t we get a true answer?

Instead we get denials that there’s been, ahem, a “transition.” Review:

Exhibit A:

Normal negritude. Nose prevalent yet not offensive. Hair of moderate napp-tencity. (Imma just leave Mike’s camisole with the bow on it right where it is…)

Exhibit B:


Transitional negritude. Still identifiable as a human, though gender specification increasingly unclear. Though showing signs of early shellacking, head covering still identifiable as "hair."

And finally *snatches off sheet*

Exhibit C:


Negritude still apparent; nose has taken on three-pronged scrotal appearance. Skin-like substance apparent; evidence of extensive sand blasting. Industrial-strength shellack apparent along sides of heaed with high-performance gel and or Japanese hand-pressing technique employed.


Now you tell me we don't deserve some answers!

The only Jackson book I’m paying for will be penned buy JermJack’s hair or Joe Jackson’s (henceforth refered to as Blow Joe) Lucifer-lookin’ eyebrows.

Otherwise, I can’t be bothered to set aside my sandwich.

Friday Realness: Is it shade if....

<<< (Because that face says IT ALL)

The scenario:
You and your boo are supposed to be getting together at a night spot around 10ish.

A minor weather Armageddon breaks out. Around the same time you are caught in your couch’s evil embrace (why can’t I quit you!!!) and you decide you’re gonna keep it in the crib, painting your nails, eating gumbo and singing Negro spirituals.

Boo is already out and about – and you encourage boo to come on by but not to rush, that is, it’s ok to keep having a bit of fun.

This is at 9 p.m.

The rub:
Boo calls at *drumroll* 11:30 p.m. talm ‘bout “I’m around the corner.”

You have to be up at 6:45 a.m.

Where shit gets REAL: Boo arrives and you quietly note that boo's mouth smells like SKRATE Alize.

Is it SHADE???? (I mean, I was TRIED by this all but you tell me your thoughts...I'll wait ... then I'll dispatch mercenaries...)

Gaddafi is runway ready - and so is Mandela (please bury me facing due west...)

YOU. DO. NOT. WANT. NONE.

Can we PLEASE set aside our morning muffin tops and international shade to embrace the stunning optical glory that is Muammar Gadaffi?

I mean, sure, from my understanding, this gentlesquire may have been involved with some type of chicanary of the dictatorship sort. Haven’t we ALL?

And yes, there may be a few thousand deaths or tortures or disembowelments or something that he’s loosely connected to. Aren’t we ALL?

But even Michelle Obama herself can’t deny the unwavering swag-magoria of this exquisite fashion horse.

Pale yellow inaugural ball gown my chafed ass – what does SHE know about that nite-glo purple, satin night sheet/throw that doubles as a couture monk’s robe, with the Eddie Murphy "Raw" pillbox hat to match?


TELL THE DJ BRANG IT BACK

Mother Gadaffi, the rest of the world may be aligned against you, but I know what's really going on - they can't take your fashion misfitry. So many times I too have fallen up in the club in my full length, Mmbaka Couture cape (with lion's mane hood) and Terminator shades only to hear these likes of Obama and the rest of these ignorant UN types keekeeing at my style. They can't take us girl, they can't. take. us.

Speaking of fashion, the negroes did THIS today:


(nobody will win in this scenario, I promise you)

From So Jones -

The Mandela Foundation is coming out with a clothing line. Named after Mandela’s inmate number at Robben Island Prison (oooof!) the 46664 Apparel Line was announced yesterday.
The profits from this project will help sustain the foundation’s charitable gifts and at the same time boost South Africa’s textile and clothing industry which has been in trouble for quite some time.

Is this what they call serendipity? I mean, I’ve been wracking my brain for months now on how I could pull off a 1993 African lollipop kid soccer player look (reminiscent of Arsenio Hall’s outfit in the morning exercise scene of “Coming to America”) in shades of ROYGBIV. If this comes with croquet mallots, summer 2011 is gonna be all the way turnt up on my end. (I predict this will be VERY popular at Capital Pride...)

Just out of curiousity, aren’t there some nations that Mandela and them need to be freeing or some people that need to be unoppressed or something?

Because all I’m seeing here is more opportunity for fashion oppression. Haven’t Africans been dressing badly long enough – don’t be offended dear reader, you know you have a Ntzake or a Kwaku or a Tesfaye in your life who won’t let that hard bottom shoe and sweat pants combo go softly into the night! (Don’t they set it AWF with a sweater… so 3008)

This is the biggest disappointment since my Lil Flip sneakers got lost in snail mail… AND my Jeezy snowman fanny pack was ruined in that freak “This Is It” wing sauce incident … AND I lost my AKOO tampon case at Six Flags.

Why won’t life let me be great???

(PS: With the entire cast of Real Housewives of Beverly Hills as my witness, one day I too will be rich enough to afford to have my body reupholstered in head to toe suede.)

Small screen fuggery: Love and Hip Hop debuts Monday (clip - and community shame - inside)

Love & Hip Hop |Olivia Longott |Somaya Reece |Mashonda Tifrere

“My name is Chrissy and Jim Jones is my man.”

Jesus keep me near to thee.

Well don’t just stand there with a KFC Mighty Wing in your hand and a Q-tip hanging out your ear -- dial up Red Cross or toss a bucket of cold water in this bitch face or shake her real hard or something – that was a cry for help if I’ve ever heard one!

From The Root:

Love & Hip Hop, premiering Monday evening, will follow the lives of four women bonded by their connection to the hip-hop world through their men and their careers.

I'll just go ahead and addend that to include that the four women are the girlfriends of Fabolous, Jim Jones, Some Other No-Count Ninja and oh yeah, (N)Olivia, that G-Unit broad 50 and them tried to shazzam us with a few summers back.

To quote a panelist at a recent forum I shaded attended: This is nothing but a trap from Satan!

In the era of Basketball Wives, Football Wives, Housewives of Atlanta, New Jersey, Beverly Hills, New York, North Kakalakee and Sri Lanka, I guess it was only a matter of time before a “Sidepiece Jump Offs of Washed Up Former Rappers Currently Workin’ Down At The Carwash” type reality docu-soap popped off.

And yet, for some reason, my soul won’t let me believe a person would voluntarily have sex with Jim Jones. Not without some sort of body condom. I won’t act like I haven’t shook my bon bon to Pig Pen’s musical stylings in “Blow Your Smoke.” I just don’t want that ninja standing next to me.

He looks like he smells of vagrancy, Black and Milds, cheap cologne, E&J, lint and booty chips. In that exact order. AND I bet the back of his neck is dirty all to be damned.

But I digress.

There are some fairly grievous offenses here, not the least of which being (N)Olivia’s presence overall (Side note: there should really be some sort of G-Unit recovery program. 50 Cent is about as bad as P-Diddy when it comes to tossing former “stars” against the wall like a well-used condom, but I guess he’s busy trying to figure out how he’s gonna keep his own self in men’s camisoles nowadays. Meanwhile Young Buck is busy worrying about the future of his anal cavity... ).

Then there's the entire weave situation (it’s generally bad when your hair resembles spun sugar or one of those Italian pasta nests).

And let's not forget said Jones jumpoff trying to mollywop a broad in a random Den of Despair strip club about two minuts into the clip, all whilst sporting a halter top and a Jolly Rancher red bra that gives all kinds of “I got it at Ross” tea.

Those are all just the basic offenses one expects at this level of coonery.

The truest fuckery emerges when Jim Jones describes his employment as a hustler – which he spells, for the record “H-U-S-L.”

This promises to offer a smorgasbord of coonery the likes of which might very well raise Coretta, Martin AND Malcolm from the grave.

*Tosses hands up and walks away from life *

Bobby Brown speaks on daughter's singing ability - A Nigga Please Moment

What's really tea on his face in this picture? Slap an off kilter wig on there and I swear he looks like Nana.


I digress. The King of Pop (spit take) and his stroke lips are back at it, prophesizing greatness for his most well-known spawn, Bobbi Kristina. That poor child never had a chance.

From From Contactmusic

In an appearance on U.S. TV show The View on Monday (07Mar11), Brown said, "She sings like a bird. She sings a little better than Whitney and she has my legs so (she can dance)..."
And the My Prerogative singer wants to team up with his daughter on record: "I'm gonna do duets with all of my kids; they all sing and dance, so I'm just waiting for the right time to strike, you know, the Brown clan."

Yes. I'll be waiting on that.

I hate you so much right now: Waka Flaka Flame appears naked in PETA campaign

WARNING: Not safe for life.



From BallerStatus.com
GET ME MY SMELLING SALTS RIGHT NOW - I can see it's gonna be a looooong year.


To quote our prolific Lady of One Million Facial Ticks, Nicki Minaj, I doth say: Ew.
I mean, bless his heart, but Waka Flocka isn't exactly a Ford Model. And I say that to say that his situation from the neck up was already tenuous at best. Between the hair and the lips and the brow and the whole being as tall as a cell phone tower thing, he has a LOT going on.

But ninjas just HAD to throw in the Spongebob Squarepants hips. Nevermind that I'm simultaneously cramming to understand how that little corner of bling is protecting my eyes from a far more aggregious assault - yet singing "Can you feel it, brand new day!" inside that they are indeed protecting my eyes from said assault.

Meanwhile, am I the only one who feels like this could be an LA Fitness ad? Waka got a body like a tube of toothpaste. How you just not have ANY muscles - even the ones required to walk? Put a coat on!




Think about how many groupies came home, dropped their draws and waited patiently in the bed for THIS to round the corner.

DO NOT WANT.

I suppose I could support this young negro scribe for taking a stance against animal abuse – but I make a point not to get mixed up in too much ball queen drama, so instead I’ll just sit in the corner quietly sipping my Shirley Temple and wait for Michael Vick to bust through the door and CAT this ninja for the open shade.

Ink not Mink eh? Expect Gucci to pass on the sentiment AND the campaign.

And the world breaths a collective sigh of relief.

New Ginuwine Video (mmmhmmm, that's what I said...)

*consider my pearls CLUTCHED*


I will temporarily disregard the fact that this man is clearly wearing a wedding suit ... or that these video heaux appear plucked from Lennox Mall ... or that from the looks of this "set" (In Riley voice: Real niggas don't have budgets!) some family in Ft. Washington, Md. was PISSED when they came home from vacation.

I can set all of that aside.

But did this ninja just say “You are my driiiiiiiiiiiink of choice"??????

Did he just say “I take you straaaaaaaaaaight with no chaser”????????

Because I’m about to break the glass on this cyanide pill I keep in my purse, if that is indeed the case.

Look into their eyes -

THE ANCESTORS ARE NOT AMUSED ELGIN!!!!!!

You know, I’m a firm believer of knowing when to fold ‘em. And when you last were a poster on someone’s dorm room wall in the previous millennium, I would argue that a fold is necessary.

Ok, Ok, let me be fair. I think it’s great that the stars of my pre-period high school years are finding their way back to the spotlight. I mean hayle, nuccas gotta eat and Softsheen Carson “Curl Control!” activator ain’t free. Plus this ninja has like, 40 kids with that hatchet-faced model wife of his, so he has to do something. It was either this or some Bojangles action down at the Jay Street Burroughs station and that’s currently MY plan C, and I DO NOT need a sidekick.

But I'm just saying: Whatever happened to the days when artists would just do the quiet, dignified fade away? They would realize that their time had come and gone, step to the left of the camera, and discretly fade into a life of alcohol abuse and eventual death in their bathtub. KIDDING! But seriously, folks like Teddy Riley and Michael Bivens kept it cute – transitioning into gigs as producers and writers, collecting their cheese and not making purety dingle donkeys of themselves being on the stage at 52 gyrating for jaysus.

Don’t nobody wanna ride your AARP pony boo.

I even heard from my good friend Blue over at bluecentric.com that Dru Hill is trying for a comeback. And that just hurts, you know what I’m saying?

I mean, DAMN, can’t I have my freshman college year memories intact? Nevermind that JLo is still holding on with - you guessed it - a new video! With Pitbull even!

When the Bar Kays make a come back, I'll know I've been changed.

Da Brat is out and her milkshake is intact (Macarena celebration jam Saturday!)

(Does anyone else get a "not without my Herpecin!" vibe from this pic? I'm just sayin. Valtrex is an option.)

Let me start by stating the obvious: Until all of my sisters are free from the horror of cheap wigs, none of us has truly overcome.

Anywho, while I was in the bathroom "reducing," the gays sneaked this on me. Mmmhmm Da Brat (yes, the 36-year-old yesterapper who is clinging to 1993 like the last scoop of chitlins in the bowl)is out. Awwwwww snap - Cleveland pride is gonna be CRUNK this year!!!!

Meanwhile, where was CNN to cover this???? FUCKIN. UP.

From Boombox:

Fresh off her release from prison, Da Brat is excited to get back into the swing of things. The female rapper is prepping tons of new projects including new music, a book, and getting up to speed on Twitter. Earlier this week, the 36-year-old completed a three-year bid for assaulting a waitress with an alcohol bottle back in 2007, and her new found freedom has changed her outlook on just about everything.

Insert booming Wizard of Oz laughter. Am I truly an evil to the core bitch for keekeeing my shoes clean off my feet at every third word in this paragraph? PS: 10 packs of cigarettes says the book title involves the words "relevance" "struggle" and "pork chop."

Speaking of which, I could've sworn I had ordered a pork chop drop for her release.

Exactly three years to the day Monday, sweet, sticky slabs of meat were supposed to rain down over the prison exit millionth-customer style; I knew Shawntae would look to the heavens, open her mouth and thank me for the show of solidarity. *Cue SWV Rain video*

Whatevs. More please:

Da Brat spoke with xxlmag.com about her newfound freedom after being released from prison on Monday, Feb. 28. Now the rapper is discussing what life was like behind bars and how she was the top dog on every cell block.

Uh oh. This is veering. The wheel is turning. Slowly. Slowly. Yes - IT HAS OFFICIALLY GONE TO THE LEFT OF SANITY.

Man, they kept me on lockdown there because they all would be singing my song. They would be in a line and I’d walk through that joint and they would be like ‘what do you like.’ And,the officers would be like ‘yo, yo fall in line,' but they wouldn’t listen,” said Brat. “... They shipped me outta there in a week.”

Ehh hemmm. I see. Yes. Shipped you out. Pandemonium you say?

It was crazy! I mean all the officers and counselors told me that the girls never bought so much makeup and got in trouble for tight pants,” explained Brat. “It was so funny. I was rollin’ off that s---. Everybody was trying to be homies and friends. Wash my clothes, do my hair, and just everything. I was a boss b---- in that m-----------.

Judge not lest ye be judged - Da Brat just wants you to know her milkshake still brings all the girls to the yard! Mmmmmk. Something tells me the only thing she got in trouble for was hoarding Cup O'Noodles, galavanting around in Lil Bow Wow braids and just generally refusing to leave the Clinton era and enter the Obama years.

But you didn't hear that from me.

If she starts coming for Nikki Minaj (Booty Mirage) talm bout her stolen "shine" Japanese ritual suicide won't be far behind for me.

Bury me a G.

Mike Tyson and his pet pigeons get their own show (Hands Jesus Kleenex)

Getty


Soooooo, at the point at which you have a tattoo on your face, it becomes pretty safe to say you might "have some shit with you" if you know what I mean. Thus having a pack of killer pigeons might follow according to some sort of Nebulian, solar logic.

But exactly why Animal Planet would sign up for this fuggery is a question for brains much veinier than my own:

Animal Planet has long been a network about people and their pets, so why not boxer Mike Tyson and his pet pigeons? The animal-oriented cable channel answers that question with “Taking on Tyson,” a new six-part series about Iron Mike and his beloved birds, premiering March 6.

Oh ok. *strokes beard and handlebar moustache* And yet there's more:

Ever since he was a boy, Tyson, 44, kept pigeons as pets. In fact, legend has it that the first punch he ever threw was aimed at a neighborhood bully who killed one of Tyson’s pigeons (reportedly by yanking off its head) and threw it in his face.

Let me just say that I have officially become the most evil bitch in the Western Hemisphere for thinking I should have BEEN done this to several people. Think of all the pigeons I had access to, and how many situations in which this would have been totally appropriate. *smashes fist into hand*

Anyways, I'm thinking we might want to dig up Aristotle and them to ponder just what might be going on with Iron Mike. Only his relevance faded sometime between the depature of assymetrical haircuts and the arrival of patent leather shoes with sheer ribbons (I will be SO ready when those come back)so I'm officially over it.

And you should be too. Only you will scoff at this posting and then rush home and TiVo the show. And then come March 6, you will close your bedroom door and turn up your Solja Boy music really loud and pretend you're in there rapping in the mirror the way you do sometimes but really you're in there watching the show and weeping over how sensitive Mike is with his birds. And then you'll go to work and be all "As if!" all the while knowing that you are now hooked on "Mike Tyson's World-o-Birds" or "Mike Tyson: Bird Whisperer" or "Mike Tyson and his Bird Wives" or whatever this shat is called.

It's all good. I'm addicted to that WhirlyWords app pretty terrible. We all have our crosses to bear.

White coonery: Roethlisberger Turns 29 (29 in what, rhino years?)

Did ya miss me?

Oh what, you thought I had hung up the "closed for business" sign? Were waiting for them to set the couches and shat from The Hostile Negress headquarters out on the corner for you to peruse? A batch can't take a few days off?

*And on the 6th, 7th, 8th, 9th and part of the 10th days, she rested*

Whatevs. Back to fuckery - brought to you by the Pittsburgh Post Gazette. There was some lead in to this but for realz, it doesn't matter. This is what matters:

... Selection Wednesday, which just happens to be Ben Roethlisberger's 29th birthday. That makes the approaching weekend Big Ben's birthday weekend, which you may have noticed has the potential of a real newsmaker, particularly in small college towns in the Deep South.

*flag on the field*

I'm gonna go ahead and call this white coonery. Why? Because this bama is not twenty-ANYTHING and I'm tired of this myth continuing to be perpetuated. I got eyes. I went to college. I can add AND subscract. Ninja is 49 if he's a day. Bret Favre should be outraged - why is he left carrying the banner of old, wrankled, playin-football-when-he-needs-to-have-a-seat-and-go-chop-some-firewood cracker all by his lonesome?



You look at that face and tell me this bama didn't drive a Camaro in 1983.

I demand a birth certificate and pictures of his mother in labor with his father holding up a newspaper with a visibile date before I accept that he's not a product of the '60s and his first toy wasn't a Pet Rock.

*strolls off into the sunset*