Love and Hip Hop: The Case Against Chrissy Lampkin's Linebacker Ass...

Let's start with the most obvious question -



WHERE THE HELL HAS THN BEEN???????

Two words: Rikers. Island.

Just know that seafood restaurants take their tank lobsters VERY seriously. Now, let us never speak of this again.

In my absence, I understand that the world has been changing. Jordans are back! Kobe's a hoe! Beyonce is to bear a Christ Child!

And apparently Mean Joe Green is back and working the reality show circuit under the alias "Chrissy Lampkin!" (I know it's you boo, those log-haulin' shoulders ain't foolin' NOBODAY!)

In between delousing myself and readjusting to "home food," I've been catching up on Love and Hip Hop. And I must say, were it not for the soothing baritone of Jim Jones mama Nancy Jones (accompanied by  the Love Unlimited Orchestra), I would scarcely be able to get through an episode without hurling my Arthur Treacher's fish nugget platter at the screen.

The reason: I. HATE. CHRISSY.

Chrissy Lampkin reminds me of something you set large traps for.
Chrissy Lampkin looks like something you find in the back of your freezer and aren't sure what it is.
Chrissy Lampkin looks like something you and your kids ride to soccer practice.
Chrissy Lampkin is shaped like a bag full of George Foreman grills.

In sum:

I unequivocably do NOT fug with that beerback, trapezoid-bodied, bowl weaved, Willie Hutch lookin'  strong bodied batch!  

And get that mighty mole removed whore!

Here's the case against Chrissy/Christopher:

• She's a batch without a cause: I'm all for bitchery. But this hoe is just an ass for the sake of being an ass. I declare I've watched that episode of her summarily mollywoppin' Kimbella again and again and I'm gonna state this plainly: I DO NOT UNDERSTAND WHY KIMBELLA WAS WRONG. Consider this - had Kimbella NOT said anything, it would've came out later and that werewolf lookin' whore would've been howling over how Kimbella "Sat up in your party eatin' your chitlins and shit knowing she was playing tilt-a-whirl on your man's thang!" So homie went ahead and said something. And what happened? She got run over by Truck Turner. Emily claimed she was over Fab, so from where I stand, this was the perfect time for Kimbella to casually mention playing tonsil golf with her baby's father. Just slip that on in between munches of rib and keep in movin' ok?? What the problem is?

Whatever your opinion of the appropriateness of the timing, one can't deny: The conflict was not Chrissy's. I know that as a bonafide WWE champion, batch likes to keep her craft fresh. But there's no reason to charge helpless women (Ok, Kimbella's gender remains under review, but work with me here).

• Batch is shaped like a stackable washer dryer: No, that's not really any type of logical reason for my undying hatred of Chrissy Lampkin, but it makes sense to me. I am SICK SICK SICK of seeing that  Tasmanian Devil-shaped trapezoid of a "woman" in close ups, particularly when s/he's wrapped in those Starburst colored bandage dresses she keeps diggin' out of her "Get It Girl 2002" trunk. While I fully understand it must be difficult to find garments to accommodate the sundry angles and sharp turns of her gridiron body, my corneas deserve so much more!

• Batch is shady: Chrissy got two faces and both of them look like Jim Jones. One minute she's readin' Kimbella. The next she's side eyein' Emily. And she stays with an overall energy of disapproval. Wanna know what I disapprove of? THAT PORTABELLO MUSHROOM CAP PERCHED ABOVE HER LIP. There is absolutely no way I wouldn't come for that thang (is it a parasitic twin? a facial piercing gone wrong?? The Northern Star??) every muthaeffin' time that tank of a "woman" said something sideways to me. *with tissue in hand* "Chrissy you have something on your face, let me get that for you" game proper!

And the final reason why I hate the hell out of Chrissy Lampkin's plow pullin' ass:

• Batch don't work anywhere, but stay judgin'!: Emily is a fake stylist. Olivia is a fake musician and possibly some type of wizard judging from the hook on her nose. Hell, even Kimbella's pumpkin-faced ass is clearly campaigning for empress of the lollipop kids (with her racially ambiguous, Tang-colored ass...). But to this DAY I have zero concept of what in all high holy fugs Chrissy Lampkin does for a living besides being a loudmouth and possibly a bodyguard. Yet she's callin' Kimbella a hoe. Let's see - she busts it open for money right? Andddd what does Chrissy do? Yep - THE SAME THING. At least Kimbella has a baby. Chrissy Lampkin's defensive linebacker lookin' ass ain't got nuthin' but a wagon hitched to Pigpen- who ain't even givin' her so much as a ring pop this decade, BTW.

Oop. Let me know how that works out for you boo!

Now let's be clear: I DO believe Kimbella is in fact stupid. If for no reason other than she should've knocked that wide-bodied SUV lookin' batch in the head with a sock full of batteries and cha cha slid into the sunset about three episodes back. Annnd I tend to believe Emily is also stupid, if only for her clear vulnerability to  the suggestive powers of Fabolous' slanty ass teeth (Oh shut up, you too were wonderin' why she was checkin' on his last millenium ass...).

But this Chrissy broad? I just can't take her ass. No literally - her ass is horrible. I can't take it.

And there you have it!

Soul 4 Real to Perform at Atlanta Prom; Also scheduled: Several unplanned, over 40 pregnancies...

Were you too busy being high/knocked up/imprisoned/one of Rick James' bottom-rung hoes to attend your prom? I know your pain - I was at Bodrow's Mac and Stack Shack (a combo salon and barbecued ribbery...)getting my stack curls together and damned if I didn't miss my ride to "Midnight Love: Let Me Ride That Donkey C/O 88!"

Oh the pain I have lived with!

Well rejoice dear readers - a new event will fill the void:

Va Inmate Sues for Sex Change Surgery (After man meat home removal fails…)

I thought Esther Rolle was gone on to glory????
Jaysus be a powerful sedative. I urge you to have a seat in a rocking chair with arms suitable for clutching. I would offer you my old rugged cross, but I’m busy clinging to it.

Ready your eyes for this riveting tale (wonderfully executed by my former co-worker – REAL TALK!) of mistaken man meat, prison razors and RuPaul aspirations.

Full disclosure: As an alternative woman (birth name: Kwame Kwaku Jenkins-Harris IV) I can completely relate to gender dysphoria and this story. I have no words to express the frustration I have felt with being constantly refered to as “sir” and being denied my rightful title in the NFL hall of fame as the second woman to play for the Giants (Wendy Williams being the first.)

From reports:

DILLWYN, Va. – Crouched in her cell, Ophelia De'lonta hoped three green disposable razors from the prison commissary would give her what the Virginia Department of Corrections will not — a sex change.

Interjection: I absolutely dare you to read further!

It had been several years since she had felt the urges, but she had been fighting them for weeks. But like numerous other times, she failed to get rid of what she calls "that thing" between her legs, the last evidence she was born a male.
Months after the October castration attempt, De'lonta filed a federal lawsuit Friday claiming the state has failed its duty to provide adequate medical care because it won't give her the operation. If she loses, she says she will continue to try self-surgery — acknowledging another attempt could kill her.

Bless the heart of this missionary in the fight against unwanted peens. We all have to start somewhere; I hear even Jermaine Jackson began his journey to abstract facial glory with putty knives and alcohol. Girl, you better chop that lumber off and get your vagina power on!

While many with gender identity disorder wish to get rid of their genitals, the majority never act — often because hormones and other treatments help make them feel more comfortable, (one expert) said. (Translation: Duct tape changes thangs! I’m a believer!)

Inmate: State-sponsored Male to Female Gender Reassignment = My American Right Boo!

The hormones and other treatments had kept her urges in check for years. She snapped Oct. 8 when an officer used a male pronoun toward her, despite a court order that prison workers refer to her as a woman.
"I screamed `She, damnit!' becoming so overwhelmed it was hard to breathe," De'lonta said.

YAAAAAAASSSS! Do you have ANY idea how many times this exact same shat has happened to me? My sloping brow, Anthony Weineresque jawline (I know you see it – I’m certain that praying mantis lookin’ ninja can husk the hell out of some corn…) and coifed goatee are NO EXCUSE for you to refer to me as anything but a delicate evening blossom of feminine exuberance. I had to turn a Bob’s Big Boy OUT after a cashier refered to me as Sir. When I tell you French fries and quick weaves were scattered! I can’t go to the state of Missouri anymore, but it was all worth it in the fight for acceptance of alternative women, such as myself, Omarosa and now, De’lonta!
*joins paw-like, square hands with other alternative women*

By God as my witness, you will NOT deny our vaginas their seat at the table!!!

Using knowledge gained from mail-order anatomy books (Another Nikki Minaj secret revealed…) De'lonta cut on and off for three hours before she passed out. It took 21 stitches to repair the damage.
De'lonta first tried to cut herself when she was 12. By 17, she was robbing banks with the hopes of getting enough money to have a sex change operation.

I get the thinking behind this – after all, I understand it’s exactly what led to Remy Ma’s life of crime. But there are more productive methods, you know, like launching a blockbuster music career, hosting a talk show or getting on the reality TV carousel, to fund your switch.

My enrollment in the alt-woman relocation program won’t allow me to reveal who I know to have followed that path. So I’ll just look directly at Wendy Williams and let you make the conclusions…

Coon Tunes: 300 lb. Man vs. Beyonce Run The World Choreography (chile stop playing and come watch this video!)

300 lbs + Beyonce Run The World video choreography = Damn life.

This is the type of shat that happens when you don't have a prayin' grandmother.

I blame Beyonce for every last bit of this.

Oh, and malfunctioning Gold N Hot flat irons - because that withered bob has my uterus in FULL TILT.

I was just in the midst of being completely unproductive when The Twitter informed me that a ratchet queen was somewhere in Birmingham shaking and jiggling it for jaysus to Beyonce's Run The World.

Against my better judgment, I clicked and was instantly taken to the bridge by the sensuous body rolls of the one I will henceforth refer to as Creole Jumbo.

After I broke free from the instant hypnosis triggered by his undulating manbreasts (Rick Ross, you have been dethroned boo. You might as well put a tube top on and pay it.) I was able to really get into what was happening, in particular, the unsolved mystery of those giblets jangling in Ms. Jumbo's ladypurse region.

We won't get into why this was filmed at Guantanamo. I haven't the time nor the investigative resources.

Body rolls at 2:53. Frantic riverdance stomping at 3:09. Death of 5,000 in 57.0 magnitude earth quake anticipated in 10 minutes.

This can't be life.

Warren G Promotes Male (ahem) "Enhancement" Pill (We're not praying hard enough, clearly..)

He said "As you can see, I take my Affirm XL and now it's time to regulate."

What's that I hear in the distance? Oh yes, JAYSUS WEEPING. Clearly Warren G didn't have a prayin' grandmother...







It would appear that the bust up of the beloved Nate Dogg and Warren G team (you know, after Nate Dogg exited for The Upper Room recently...) has hit Warren G hard (nevermind the 20-odd recordless years of surviving on bologna sammiches and Fanta waiting to get put back on...) and his wang has taken it hardest.

Or softest.

It's too early in the morning for this shat.

From TheRoot:

The supplement's website includes three spots starring him -- and even working in a hip-hop reference for anyone who couldn't quite place the almost 40-year-old rapper

*clutches chest Redd Fox funeral style* It's the big one! I'm coming to join you Elizabeth - with a 15-year-old Warren G cassette in my hand and one of Hugh Hefner's ratty smoking jackets on my back!

Time to regulate indeed.

Nevermind the subtle shade implied in the notion that someone couldn't quite place him ("Who is this coon? Oh wait, he's the cat who be down at the Wash-n-Go on Crenshaw...") The question on my mind is exactly how is Warren G, by all accounts a 90s rap "star" who hasn't been relevant in a few presidential administrations, qualified to shill male enhancement pills?

Why would anybody buy a male enhancement pill from a someone whose peen probably hasn't seen any action since the 2 Live Crew "Barbeque and Balls Bash" of summer 1995????

Hell, let me stop: Some class of 93 former Bonita Applebum-turned-mama of 17 probably gave Warren G her considerably stale cookies behind a Circle K just last week. The shat people do for a chance to share a sammich *shakes head*

But that doesn't change that we haven't seen a Warren G album of relevance since the Real World was a legitimate show, and Regulators - though celebrated as a 90s rap hit - was really just Warren G and Nate Dogg moaning about some shat that would be forgettable had the song not been carried by the dope Michael McDonald background beat. Boom. KAK even.

Hell, ninja NEED to be taking a CAREER enhancement pill...I ain't lyin'!

Drive Thru Mortuary Makes Viewing Dead Convenient. (Sadly, Fries and Sundaes Unavailable)

Drive. Thru. Mortuary.

In the words of Ike Turner's stunt double Chris Brown: I'm done.

 


From The LA Times:

Adams funeral parlor, a fixture in Compton since 1974, brings to the business of death a convenience of the living: drive-thru viewing of the dead.
Visitors are greeted by a huge red-lettered sign above the entrance of the stone building on East Palmer Street. In the reception lounge, gold chandeliers dangle so low that tall visitors have to duck. Plastic swathes the pink upholstered seats.

So much fuckery. So little time. Just once, ONCE, can I PLEASE click on something like this and The Blacks not be involved? Can't it be like, Rosie Perez and them? Meanwhile, I would like to go on the record right here, now and TODAY as putting my family on notice -

YOU'D BETTER NOT EVEN THINK OF REDUCING ME TO THE STATUS OF A BACONATOR AFTER I'VE BEEN ASSASSINATED!

I urge you, dear reader, to make your family aware of your post-mortem wishes as well -- or risk a funeral service that involves a side of seasoned fries and a sweet iced tea. You will NOT get sweet and sour sauce on my home-going outfit! Meanwhile, is it me, or does this give an odd corpse zoo affect (as opposed to, you know, a NOT odd corpse zoo affect)?

There's more:

"It's a unique feature that sets us aside from other funeral parlors," said (owner)Peggy Scott Adams..."You can come by after work, you don't need to deal with parking, you can sign the book outside and the family knows that you paid your respects," said Scott Adams. "It's a convenience thing."

Did she just imply that you could scoot on through in the Cutlass Supreme and view Grandma Nana on the way to Laquisha's Clip-n-Weave????? Well hell, since we're talking about convenience, why not just rig up one of those vacuum tubes like they have at the bank drive thru? Just stuff the body in the container, and ZIP ZOOM - Cousin Mookie is gone home to the Upper Room!

In the spirit of the Pulitzers, I'm going to go ahead and give this patron saint of shazzamery a 2011 Golden Coon Award. The ancestors are truly stunned right now.

*wanders off singing "you's a window shoooooper!" - since I'm a drop dead asshole*

Advanced Placement Fuggery: Braxtons New Reality TV Show

Braxtons New Reality TV Show

(I ain't built for this shit...)


I would have written something earlier dear readers, but the Tuesday night coonivision choke slam that was Braxton Family Values (the new Toni Braxton reality show) left me incapacitated: I spent most of the last 24 hours sitting in a corner, clutchin' a hot pink unbreakable comb and muttering incoherently about the weave shop.


That's what a sea kelp-lookin' wet and wavy weave will do to a batch! I had visions of whithered hairlines all. damned. night.

Thankfully, a couple of parishioners came over and fanned me back upright and I'm once again sane and able to document negro antics.

Like I said, I owe my convulsive episode to the fuggery extravaganza that is Braxton Family Values. Premiering Tuesday, the new reality tv show follows '90s soul diva Toni Braxton's attempts to revitalize a career ravaged by bankruptcy, personal and family illness and just general hard knocks.

From the top of the r&b charts to poppin' it in Las Vegas. See what Satan does!

In the meantime, we the drama hungry curious and deserving public are treated to a veritable waterfall of shenanigans care of each careerless hangers on Toni Braxton sister.


There's Trina and Tasia, and Tito ... something like that, hell I don't know, I just know all the Braxton sisters sit in the backseat while one sister rises above the rest - a veritable saint of coonanigans.




FUCKERY, THY NAME IS TAMAR

.
I feel moved to pledge my undying loyalty to this saint of jackassery. Not only does she set hearts and Twitter aflame by incessantly repeating her .com catch phrase (that's tired.com!) but the sheer disrespectfulness of her weave is downright intimidating.

You GOTS to be scared of a batch willing to slap a mop head on her dome and look you dead in the eyes like ain't nathan wrong. (In all fairness, the Braxton sisters are competing equally to win the title of the butt of most bad weave jokes but more on that later.com)

But the TRUE fierceness erupted when - after confronted by Tamar about refusing to provide her angelic vocals with an album deal - her husband sat her AND her Sensationnel instant weave ALL THEE WAY DOWN.




"If you don't listen, YOU CAN'T WIN!" YAAAAASSSS. In. The. Paint.

Personally, I strongly suggest she work the assets she already has. Why focus on being an r&b star when her cups overfloweth - you'd better wriggle back into that white cooch holster and get you one of those XXL Magazine covers! Ask singer Mashonda and her skyscraper crotch if a tittie shot won't keep Rent-A-Center off your ass for a few months... I'm just sayin'!

Anyway, I'm hooked on this Toni Braxton reality show like Aretha Franklin on butter flavored Crisco. Nene Leakes who?

Rain advanced fuckery down on me Braxtons!!!!!

New Report: Wet and Wavy Weave/Beyonce Weave Antics Ravaging Black Women's Hairlines!

You would think 3M makes some sort of Velcro product targeted directly at the sketchy hairline community.

In a blockbuster article almost certainly influenced by Naomi Campbell's coastal erosion edges (honorable mention for model Cynthia Bailey and her hologram hairline...), U.S. News and World Report this week reports that relentlessly tacky, unconvincing and overall ratchet weaves creative hair concoctions are resulting in a generation of butterball-headed negresses.

From U.S. News and World Report:

A new study of middle-aged black women finds that almost 30 percent suffer from baldness and scarring in the center of their scalps, possibly because braids and weaves pull their hair too tight.

I call bullshit - judging from the average urban fastfood drive thru window, the number is at least 67 percent! But I concede that my study methods (tallying the number of askance glances I direct at assorted golden arches hairlines daily) aren't exactly scientific.

I digress - the report's author goes on to blame a mixture of black hairbraiding styles, relaxers (aka scream cream), hot combs and an assortment of (ratchet) black hairstyles for snatching negresses the world over cleaner than Bobby Brown's wallet. Mmmmhmmm, where's your Mizani Butter Blend Relaxer now??

One thing is clear about the baldness, however: "Once you get it, it's permanent," Kyei said, and the hair doesn't come back. "That's why a lot of African Americans wear wigs or put something on their scalp to hide their hair." -- I'M NOT GOING TO LET YOU CALL KELLY ROWLAND OUT LIKE THAT! - THN

So about now you might be thinking, but THN, how did they do the study? Did they just run up on assorted women with Mr. Drummond-type hairlines at the weave shop and say "Hey woman, hey woman - I noticed that your hairline is giving a slight Houdini affect, sort of now you see it, now you don't. What's tee?"

Batch, you know that's EXACTLY what they did:

In the new study, Cleveland Clinic researchers examined the hair of 326 black women who were approached at churches and a health fair in Cleveland. The women answered questions about their hair and their health.

And THAT I would have given up an entire year's worth of "This Is It!" buffalo wings (don't front, I see you gnawing on the honey goodness) to watch. Can you imagine how they convinced Sister Jenkins to lift off this:




(Praise him!)


To reveal THIS:



Someone break the glass on the emergency Holy Water vial over by the organ. And grab that Kemi Oyl out of Sister Hawkins' bra while you're at it - we're about to go to war for the LORD! Hairline missionaries, ACTIVATE!!!!!

The things people will do when promised a few Pantene samples and a coupon to Wong's Weave Hut.

In the words of Chris Brown: I'm done.

(PS: No I do NOT feel sorry for these people. They knew when they're hairline started giving a Count Chocula affect what time it was! I continue to advocate natural hair styles for black women, if only to keep my decorative afro pick racket going strong on Etsy. I'm just sayin'!)

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*)

You TOO can smell like a Kardashodum!

They had me at "Available at Perfumania"



I have only one question: How is this a fragrance for both sexes? I was under the impression Lamar and that other guy were a same sex couple? I may bust up some shat if I find out I spent $80 on a ROYGBIV cake at Pastry Pizzazz for nothing!

*roll up the banners. Gay pride is canceled this year*

$20 says this smells like Rap Musk (don't EVEN act like you didn't spritz yourself with that shat in 1994) and printer ink, with the subtlest touch of olive juice.

PS: This ad made me want to stop having sex. Forever.

Fashion police moving violation #236: And I have no words for this

Stop. Pause. Quit.

Whatever you were doing can wait. Now is the time for you to bow down and acknowledge the majesty that is Nikki Minaj in her triple decker, Spanx approved high waisters (Form. Fit. Fuckery) with the Lingerie by Rainbow Honeymoon Delights bra. (Side note: I feel so bad for any tittay that ever has to wriggle into one of those awful ass Rainbow bras - you know, the ones that hang so pitifully near the "If you like Cool Water, you'll love Lukewarm Punch" display. I'm 90 percent certain they all smell like wet cardboard)


If this wasn't before 1993, everybody involved is going straight to hell, and I mean on a bullet train, TODAY.

I'm not blind dear readers. I see that "other" entity in the picture. However, my retina pigmentosa - not to mention my latent aneurysm - are both bound to be activated by any attempts to explain that loveseat ass and those Carnival Cruise pants.

See there, now my ears are ringing. I told you I couldn't talk about this shit today.

A storybook romance: Shaq meet Hoops! (ointment please...)

From Necole Bitchie

I'm gonna give you a few moments to compose yourself.

Then I'll just hop out on a limb and say you have to be one rattlesnake of a nasty hoe to consider having sex with Shaquille O'Neal as a full-time or even part time, or even semi-quarterly vocation. I mean, the man's femur is the size of your spine. He has boogers the size of crepes. I'll leave the rest to your imagination, but suffice it to say, if you value your womb and fallopian situation - and perhaps even your kidney scenario - this is NOT a good look.

Then again, Hoopz is probably time enough for him in the bulky uterus department.


Let me tell it, this "woman" gives far to much Arab man tea for me to accept her XX status. But that's neither here nor there. I'd like to go ahead and give a shout out to Flavor Flav for transforming her into the world-renowned celebrity she has become. I know her career will amount to more than pogo stick rides soon. I feels it in my bones. Now if only she can stop lookin' like Mumrah...

Though I can hear you sniffling into your grammy's handkerchief behind that photo alone (the knuckles will set. you. FREE.) I'm gonna have to ask that you take just one more step into the light and review their "meeting" as told to The Boston Globe, which is clearly hanging on by a thread more slender than Teyanna Taylor's odds at a non porn-related career lately:

Hoopz, 28 (STOP) met the 38 year old Diesel (who is almost 2 feet taller than her) numerous times while on the scene ("on the scene" Girl I guess). It wasn’t until she was visiting a photographer friend in St. Louis that she saw an autographed poster of Shaq on his wall. She mentioned to her friend that she had met him a few times and that friend texted Shaq and told him Hoopz said “Hi” (Translation: Hoopz said remember Cancun?). Shaq immediately texted back and asked him if she had a boyfriend and the friendship began from there.

I for one am always impressed by tales of oral sex turned storybook romance. It continues:

Their first date was in Las Vegas (the two were in town for two separate events) and they immediately hit it off. “I knew he was a goofball. We’re the same. We’re both goofballs.’’ He then visited her home turf of Tennessee (where she had moved with her last boyfriend before they split) and the two went fishing, visited the Waffle House and she made him listen to her favorite musicians like Brad Paisley and Taylor Swift.

Is it me or does this ho keep a suitcase packed by the door? Girl don't hate - you better be ready to make that move to Albuquerque if the money's right.

It was a culture shock for Shaq but it ended well and solidified his relationship with Hoopz who made turkey for his mom and three kids on Thanksgiving and ran around Boston with Shaq dressed as a pimp on Halloween. Shaq describes Hoopz as his “first male best friend besides my mother”.

First male best friend, besides my mother? *tosses University of Maryland degree into flames* clearly I didn't go to the right school because that made zero sense to me. Meanwhile, back at the ranch, you will NOT drag the name of Waffle House into this.

Jaysus told me from the other side that this tragedy will be taken up on judgment day. For now, I just want Shaq to hit those harsh lookin' knuckles with a double shot of shea butter, so my heart can go on.

Foxy Brown diss album moved up! I know I'll be in line!

(HIPHOPDX)

Please add that dress to our sick and shut in list.

Hot off the presses:

With the song still unheard, AllHipHop.com has learned that Foxy Brown is expected to release her Lil' Kim diss on another holiday - New Year's Day. The song is said to be called "U Ain't Ruff Enough," and features Lower East Side, New York emcee Rekage.

I don't know that there's anything else that needs to be said on that note.

I know what you're saying - I mean, after you recomposed yourself upon learning that Santa DOES exist after all, and readying a spot in your prized cassette tape tower for the Foxy Brown single you'll be coppin' from Waxie Maxie's tomorrow (I mean, hell, let's go ALL the way back in time...). You're thinking: THN never lets up on the Foxy Hound. Well you know what? You're right.

You may be a shiftless sofa jockey who wants nothing more than a pineapple soda and paternity results from Maury, but I am a serious journalist who is documenting one of the most important stories of our time - the loss of our historic hip hop scalawags.

Where's my Pulitzer?

Woman uses sex toy to beat cop - and other tales to ruin Christmas dinner

A Lake County judge on Thursday issued a warrant for the arrest of a woman charged with attacking a Gurnee police officer with a sex toy.

Nevermind that this woman slightly resembles a shriveled peen.

There are times, my children, when I think I'm just gonna lay down and give up this struggle. Like, it's time for me to just go on to glory. And when the words "rigid, glass, feminine pleasure device" coincide in a story with the phrases "dine and dash" and "Joe's Crab Shack," I feel like it's time to electric slide into my casket and shut the door tight.

Bildsten reached into a dresser drawer for what the officer thought was money to pay her bill, but instead pulled out the “pleasure device” and charged toward the officer with the sex toy raised over her head, Patrick said.

I'm going to overlook the obvious concerns about, ahem, personal fluids and why this cop was fool enough to let her go in the drawer in the first place (I would have busted out with the shotty and blew him right on down, but I'm hostile so, you know...) and cut right to the question that I know is really rockin' your socks: Since WHEN did Joe's Crab Shack start sending cops to your door behind skipped bills? And moreover, is Red Lobster's following suit????

This apparent crackdown on seafood filchery could devastate the black community. The moral of the story, dear hearts, is that clam bakes and dungeness crab legs cost money and Phillip's ain't playin'.

Oh, and don't turn to dildoes for personal protection. (But I could've told you that...)

The Great Debate aka you just GOT to be right?!?!

Raises her saber to the sky and with a thunderous crash of cacaphony declares: Dammmned if I’m about to get into a debate with your ass todayyyyyyy!!!!!!!!

So I’m hoping that the person who has triggered this post never sees this. And if she does, bless her heart, I’ll buy her a rhutabaga pie to make up for it all. She's really a sweet, smart girl. But on this November afternoon, I’m about to let it fly and she started it. The topic: information debaters.

These people really wrinkle The Hostile Negress’s ample nose.

I’m sure my reader(s) have encountered someone of this ilk once before. This is the friend who is contrarian. Not “’70s superfly jacket with chuck tailors and ballgown because you won’t stop me” contrarian. Not “oh, hair is a woman’s glory, eh? I’m cuttin ALL OF THIS OFF TODAY!” contrarian. No, those are the quaint contrarian idiosyncrocies of yours truly, which are almost certain to result in some type of hippie/revolutionary lifestyle before it’s all said and done. And yes, the hair probably will go in some type of dramatic in your face showdown as well.

No, I’m talking about someone who is always there to challenge the information you’ve just provided. Doesn’t matter if the information is there in black and white. Doesn't matter if you just watched the incident under debate take place. They’re there to yell CHALLLLLLLLEEEEENGE with regards to your statement of the facts.

Example: The Hostile Negress, in her effort to remember why she thought Florida would be a good place to call home, decides to take a caravan of sorts to a certain out of control city where it’s always about 4000 degrees and apparently, the laws and language of North America are completely unapplicable.

HN: Yeah I’m on my way down there, looking forward to it.
Great Debater: How long is it going to take?
HN: About two hours.
Great Debater: Really? Because I think that’s a four-hour drive.
(Insert that this drive is being made from an area just south of Orlando to said city, Miami)
HN: Looking directly at highway sign. Well it’s only 180 miles.
Great Debater: Well I’ve done a lot of long distance driving and I remember that being about four hours, but ok.

Girl boo bye stop drop and die. What. Are. You. Talking about???? In what universe is 180 miles a four-hour journey? Even Gilligan got there in less time! This is the type of thing that just gets under my pelt - I mean you're just being ridic right now, seriously.

Incident No. 2 – upon my announcement of a long awaited trip to the birthplace of all negroes, Maryland.

HN: So yeah, I’m going back up to Maryland this weekend. Really looking forward to it!
Great Debater: Oh cool bring me back a snowball.
HN: Um, girl it’s not snowing there.
Great Debater: Really? Because my friend lives there and she said she got snow.

Now, at this point I should outpoint that while The Hostile Negress has been a mainstay in the South for the past few years (something I will rectify relatively soon) I was born* and raised in Maryland. I got some years under my belt in the Old Line state son. I KNOW what Maryland weather does and doesn’t do. And what it doesn’t do is snow at all, and certainly not to a point of having massive snowball fights, in mid November. Stop the madness.

How did this convo end? Girl it didn’t – I’m still getting texts about it as we speak. I'm just going to concede and tell her I'm packing a snowsuit and checking to make sure TSA will let me bring a carrot and two coal eyes for my snowman.

Another entry with no point other than to illuminate the side eye that has become my life lately.

Good. Day.


*The Hostile Negress was technically born at Alexandria Hospital, in (deep shudder) Virginia. But she’ll cut you QUICK if you ever bring up the V-word.