MC Hammer Launches Search Engine (We've got to pray...)

MC Hammer Searching for Income with New Search Engine

Damned if I didn't dream I was doing the typewriter across what remains of Ginuwine's career last night! That's the last time I watch "Life After: Light Skint Lovers Edition" before bed! Apparently MC Hammer, or Hammer, or Customer Service Agent #202 - whatever he's calling himself these days - is comin' at Google's neck.

From Media Bistro (which ain't shit for that picture, btw...)

Seriously. At first we thought Mashable been taken in by an article from The Onion, but this is really happening. MC Hammer introduced his new search engine, called WIREDoo, at the Web 2.0 Summit in San Francisco. The search engine will provide things that Google doesn’t, including what Hammer calls “deep search" a term applied both to search engine results and Hammer's career efforts over the past decade. And we don’t know what that is, but it sounds hot.

First Deion Sanders is shaming the race in all white erythang shilling DirecTV. Now Stanley's trying to bargain basement Google his way to the top.

This is a cross clutchin', standing on the promises week if I've ever seen one.

PS: I absolutely refuse to fug with MediaBistro behind this end quote:

"Now if Salt-N-Pepa would just launch a social networking site, my week would be complete."

Quietly, I hear those sisters are making some powerful moves in the shapewear industry. If you like Spanx, you'll love "Stuff Its"...

Anywho, while you were laughing at Hammer - and why not, the status of that jackal peen rat tail perched in his kitchen could launch a thousand evenings of keecackling easy - you overlooked an important fact: it was HIS WIFE, not Stanley, who was responsible for more of his fashion misgivings! Mmmhmm - the more ya know!

It's true because VH1 told me so on that hilarious MC Hammer bio movie a few years back. Stanley was happy living a lifestyle of tater tots, Oakland A's groupie hood and jiggin' for jaysus (with an occasional James Brown impression in the club for good measure) when his wife decided she wanted more than pork and beans burning on the grill.

She grabbed a throw pillow and her Singer, stitched up some droopy crotched pants and a generation of fashion fuggery was born.

It's truly a story of someone's reach exceeding their grasp; had the sister just been satisfied with his humble dreams, Stanley could have been a respectable Steve Harvey suit salesman and she could be dining on Skillet Sensations in a two-bedroom split level. Instead, she's cleaning up after 18 kids while Stanley struggles for relevance.

Yet every single time I consider forgiving MC Hammer for his transgressions (capes; the Pizza Head dude; countless sins against shoulder pads and velvet shoes over which Teddy Riley still weeps; abuse of Let's Jam gel and assorted other hair products) I recall the terror he unleashed upon us in the form of the "Can't Touch This" generation. And by that, I mean fuckshit like this: