ByronCrawford.com

It's time to say goodbye (for now)

I accidentally came across this site last December. I was in the process of finishing my upcoming book (to be released hopefully this November) and was conducting some on-line research of (no homo Juelz Santana) Camron when bol's site popped up with all types of no homo this and how Camron was all types of fagged out that. After reading that post, I was hooked on what I now consider to be e-crack. Being born in a different decade than most of you young fucks, I barely knew what an effin blog was. However, day after day, this muh-fucker Byron Crawford would drop all types of insane science about this idjit, that idjit and the third and it was scary how I agreed with almost everything that was being written. See, it felt right because as most of you know, I'm a 10 year + music industry exec and believe me when I tell you, most of the cats in that industry are coked out fags very happy to be dildoed up the arse by the tall Israelis running the biz. After having my fill of all the bullshit that goes on in that game, I knew instinctively that I needed a change of pace. I set my sights for film and television and in December of 2003, I packed up my shit and took a well deserved break.

Well, having three kids and a wife, my well deserved break took a major effin detour when, with no benefits and no steady form of income, I realized that I was effin unemployed FOR A FUCKING YEAR AND SIX MONTHS!!! Being way up there in age (late thirties), and being a jig, negro, nigga, whatever you fucks call us, I awoke to the fact that my shit was severely screwed. With my dual Ivy League degrees looking virtually useless (undergrad and law school) it became downright scary when no one, and I mean no one would hire my black ass. Interview after interview, white fagged out or dyked out face after white fagged out or dyked out face, I continued to collect L's in the form of rejection after rejection. I must have applied to like, 750 positions over the past year and a half. Meanwhile, bills piled up, basic utilities like phone, cell, gas and heat were getting continuously cut off and on, niggas was living all up in my crib with no types of insurance, wifey had to take up a job teaching inner city inmates in Brooklyn's worst public school zones and my shit was all round ragged, janky and assed out. The only thing that helped me keep my sanity and dignity intact was this site. I started commenting in January, and even reached out to Byron directly via e-mail letting him know that he was writing some of the hottest and realest shit I've seen in a long effin time (no homo). Dude, realizing my background was tight (no homo) invited me to guest write. During this time, I was doing a Morgan Spurloch and decided that throughout the month of February, I would, after dropping my kids off to school, get drunk all day for twenty eight effin days! During this continuous drunken state, I created the nom de plume "Combat Jack", my first post was about how pimped out Pope John Paul was, and the rest was history. (I really was drunk for the whole effin month and I don't recommend that shit for anyone to try).

Man we had a ball, no homo, from Jigga to Jacko to, who can forget "Combat Jack's 5 Gulliest Moments In The Music Industry"? Shit was flowing and I got my effin mojo back. Sheet, I even created a Combat Army of Bitches, got me posted up in the Village Voice's blog rock, and most importantly (no homo Juelz Santana) met up with Byron Crawford AND his mom's last month while they were both in Brooklyn. Believe me when I tell you, Byron Crawford is Black, actually, he's a BIG ASS NIGGA!!! (no homo).

Well, like all good things, shit must come to an end. I finally convinced those fags up at a certain MAJOR Music TeleVision network to hook a nigga up with a job. I also convinced those cats at said Music TeleVision Network to give me a Vice President position (WORD). It's a cool situation because it's a creative job and I get a chance to make some changes within the system (at least that's what the tall Israelis told me when they offered me the gig) and they are paying me BIG time Bitches!!! I start next Monday and I know that when cracka ass cracka is paying a nigga the type of $$$$ they're paying me, that that certain Music TeleVision Network basically owns my black ass lock, stock and effin barrel. Gone are the days when I could casually (and drunkenly) write some shit on this site, shit, I'm damn near afraid to pull this site up at work! Yeah ya'lls, CJ is gone for now. But if I play my shit right, I'm sure as hell going to try to convince dem tall Israelis to produce the Music TeleVision original "Byron Crawford 1/2 Hour Variety Show". That's my word!!!  Byron, good looking out my knukka!!!  You're the fucking best, don't stop this shit right here (no homo). The rest of you bitches, it's been real. OUT!!!!

Combat Jack's gully visit to Aruba

I'll be the first one to admit that this post is a blatant piggy back (no homo Juelz Santana) to Bol's last post about his gully trip to Aruba. I'd like to start off by saying that Aruba is one gully ass of an island to visit! In 1996, a group of 15 Black music professionals (no homo Juelz Santana) including yours truly took a week-long excursion to Aruba. The minute we got there, they had all types of jigs and Mexican looking cats at the airport singing the country's praise about how Aruba was proud that they had a 1% unemployment rate and how they had a .5% crime rate. I was like "kewl!" We all get into the bus to take us to our hotel and our driver, a lil dwarf like Mexican looking Arubian (is that what you call em?) looking like Tattoo from "Fantasy Island" is all on the bus speakers, talking about how Aruba is the safest place in the eastern hemisphere, what with their 1% unemployment rate and .5% crime. Once again, I'm like "kewl". I had been to other islands like Jamaica and believe me when I tell you, dem bombaclots put the "F" in Gully.

So anyway's we get to our hotel and shit is laid out just like I picture heaven to be, drinks flowing, chicks in bikinis and thongs and 24/7 gambling. Now I'm in no way a professional gambler, but sometimes my hand at Roulette is just right. Instantly, we all start acting like savage jigs let loose in cracka ass cracka's big house and the effin party begins, drinking, gambling, smoking trees like Haliburton, water sports, all types of shit niggas from inner city New York ain't used to. My girl at the time (now Mrs. CJ) caught a later flight to join us, gets to the hotel, and realizes she that her luggage was taken to another hotel.

So for the next couple of hours she's bitching about how she doesn't have shit to wear, I'm (deeply embedded in the bliss of one too many rum punches and chronic (or whatever the fuck those Arubians call their shit) smoke) trying to calm her ass down by offering to buy her a week's supply of thongs and toe rings, and we arrange to take a trip to the hotel where her shit was dropped off, knowing damn well that those those jigs, Mexican looking cats and whatever funny looking third world natives living there already done ravaged through her shit and are having some type of lost luggage celebration up in the hills or some shit. When we get there, we speak to the front desk, and in a couple of seconds, some jigs run up on us with my girl's luggage all intact. They even brought us some type of effin complimentary fruit bowl and two vouchers to spend a night in their President Suite on account of the bus driver's/ luggage handlers' fuck-up. I'm like "Dayum, this place is really crime free, kewl!".

We arrived on Sunday, scheduled to leave the following Sunday, and every effin day leading up to our last night (Saturday) is effin paradise. Para-sailing, lobsters, drinks, all the shit I mentioned above is going on and I'm praying it doesn't end. Our last night, Saturday, my whole crew is in the casino having a blast and to top things off, I'm up by like $2,000 at the Roulette table. This was our version of boy's night out (nhjic) as our chicks were all in the hotel getting dolled up for dinner later on that evening. Man, we're all smoking cigars, drunk and shit, joking like lil bitches (no homo Juelz Santana) and after me placing like 35 chips on 8 (my lucky number) six effin Arubians (what the eff do you call em?) RUN IN THE EFFIN CASINO WITH SKI MASKS ON, ALL TOTING AK-47'S AND DEMANDING THAT WE ALL GET ON THE FLOOR!!!

Now I have never claimed to be gully, (even though I've witnessed some gully shit here in good ole U.S. of A.) but I vividly recall getting instantly sobered up and feeling real shook up under that Roulette Table. My boy Matt from Harlem (now he's gully) is all up under the very same table with about 9 other sobered up tourists, the whole effin place is silent and some bitches around the room are sobbing about how these Arubians are about to execute the whole effin lot of us gangland style. Meanwhile, my sorry ass is busy trying to stuff all my cash and Rolex watch in my socks. The gunmen are screaming out some eff'd up demands in their eff'd up language that I in no way understand, and I'm thinking that if I get murdered, it's all because I don't understand Arubian (or whatever type of eff'd up Dutch those people speak). What these gunmen came to do was they came in, pulled out the heat, and went straight to the cashier's gate, kept us all subdued at gunpoint, and cleared out everything from the Casino's cash registers and vaults (or wherever casinos generally keep their stash). After about 10 minutes, dudes got what they wanted and broke the fuck out, leaving everyone the eff alone. When we realized that dudes had broke out, we all warily got up from the tables, and when I stood up and looked at the Roulette table, I realized that my number 8 had hit with that stack of 35 chips up on it!!!! Being the true business man that I am, I demanded that I receive my winnings, cashed my shit and summarily got the eff up out of there.

Feeling a bit disenchanted with Disney-land, we rented some (about 5 of 'em) Suzuki jeeps to drive around the island that night, we're doing the tourist shit, trying to let all that gun-play shit sink in and my boy Matt gets broad-sided by an Arubian driver. After the fall-out, everyone involved in the crash is uninjured and the Arubian runs out his vehicle with machete in hand ready to wreck further damage!!! After calming dude down, we all get the eff outta there and at this point we're all ready to return to the very friendly and safe streets of N.Y.C.

The next day, on our way to the airport, our driver tells us that the gunmen from the night before went on a spree and cleaned out five other casinos before getting caught and all murdered dead by gunshot wounds inflicted by the local authorities. When I heard about Natalee Hollaway's disappearance last week, I knew that if that chick encountered any of the thuggish elements we did, she is in no way longer with us. As for Aruba, I'd rather take my chances with gully ass Jamaica, at least I can understand what the eff those rude bwoys are saying.

EXCLUSIVE!!!! THE GAME IS FUCKED AND DOESN'T EVEN KNOW IT (NO HOMO)

Anyways, yesterday afternoon, I happened to be in midtown Manhattan hanging with some old music exec buddies I haven't seen in a while (no homo).  It's about 3 pm and we're doing some afternoon man style drinking before my buddies take some very important business meetings (which should tell you something about why the music biz is in such a sorry state). Anyways, my man "H" stops by (no homo), H happens to be a pretty important guy over at Interscope Records. Anyways, what with me being somewhat out of the loop over the past couple of months, I ask him how that Teh Ghey's performance and outburst at New York's Summer Stage show a few weeks ago against Fiddy and G-Unit was playing out over at the label. He threw back a shot of Remy Martin, looked me in the eye and said "The Game Is Fucked!!!" He explain to me that the day after the Game's outburst and tirade against Curtis Jackson and all things G-Unit, Jimmy Iovine (the short Israeli who runs Interscope and who is making mazillions of dollars with Eminem's Shady Records, Dr. Dre's Aftermath Records and Fiddy's G-Unit Records) was shook when he realized that his stable of money makers might possibly crumble. Fiddy, love him or hate him, has sold, collectively with all G-Unit records released over the past 3 some odd years, about 30 million records worldwide. The Game, to date, has sold about 2 million. Do the math.  Being that Fiddy, over the past year has exhibited as well as demanded a strong, almost dictator-like sense of the importance of loyalty to he and his crew, Jimmy was deathly fearful that Fiddy would abruptly break with Aftermath, Shady and Interscope, thus cutting off their flow of his money making G-Unit Label.

Being fearful of pissing off Mr. Jackson, Jimmy, Eminem and Dr. Dre that very next day, hopped on a private jet flying them from Los Angeles to Toronto, where Fiddy is in the process of filming his upcoming biopic film. All parties sat down and, in trying to feel where Fiddy was and also to keep dude happy, they decided to do the following: After the run of Game's current single "Dreams", Interscope will slowly kill all remaining momentum on Game's "Documentary" lp (meaning no new single, no new videos, no press, nothing).  They will then keep dude from recording an lp for a looooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooong effing time. However, because they won't drop him from the label anytime soon, Game won't be able to sign to another label for a loooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooong effing time and thus, will have no other outlet to record a follow up lp. That being said, dude will be on severe lockdown at Interscope for a looooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooong effing time. Talk about slow death. The worst shit about all of this, H said, was that Game isn't even aware, even as you read this, that this shit is going down.  If you ask me, he'd be better off doing a bid with Shyne, Beanie Siegel and C-Murder behind bars.

Now, I am in no way a Game nor a Fiddy fan, but when I heard this exclusive bombshell of a story, there was no way I could resist sharing this with you sick fucks. As The Game's career slowly recedes into nothing but a memory, remember that you heard it here first, way before Mr. Game even realizes what's going on. Oh yeah, the music industry is SHADY!!!

A CURE FOR AIDS HAS BEEN DISCOVERED!!!

I’ve been away for a while on account of me trying to git my shit together career-wise and shit. In the interim, I did happen to meet Byron Crawford and his mom (no homo and no joke) during their jaunt through my neck of the woods last week in Brooklyn, NYC. I’ll tell you about it sometime soon. Anyways, I’ve also been wrapped up in something really important, the NBA finals.

So after a few weeks of seeing Miami and Dallas being summarily sent home, I’m watching Detroit catch mad ass pounding (n.h.) from San Antonio and I’m noticing that during the half-time and post game commentary shows, where they’ve rounded up all the washed up former NBA jigs, that Earvin “Magic” Johnson has become and remains a big ass nigga. Now, ordinarily, that wouldn’t mean shit seeing as how Charles Barkley is also a big ass nigga with a big ass round head (lay off the pork rinds dude), but didn’t Magic announce on November 7, 1991 that he had contracted the H.I.V. virus (after running up in Isaiah Thomas too many god damned times) causing him to retire from professional basketball? 

Now, I know what you may think, so I’ve mos def gotta throw the pre-emptive no homo before finishing this sentence, but I’ve personally known a few cats over the years that contracted H.I.V. around the same time that Magic caught it, and the toughest one (dude was a mean ass effin gay dude) held on until about 1998 before he passed away, and believe me when I tell you, dude ended up with a bad case of the coughs, thins and shrivels.

To my knowledge, H.I.V. ain’t no effin joke the same way cancer ain’t no effin joke, once you catch it, it’s more or less “goodbye buddy”, so what the fuck is Magic’s deal? Back in 1999, a friend of mine, who was this mad kooky conspiracy theorist who had all types of weird ass conspiracy theorist books and spent mad time on all of these weird ass conspiracy theorist web sites used to tell me about the cure. He used to look me in the eye with that eff’ed up conspiracy theorist bugged out glaze in his gaze and claim that scientists in Africa discovered the cure to aids back in like 1992. He claimed that pharmaceutical companies from around the world made some type of pact to keep the cure a secret on account of how the h.i.v. drug industry was a cash cow for them and would only allow a certain “select” people with enough clout and capital in on their lil secret. He went on to tell me that Magic hooked up with some African dignitaries, paid them like a fortune, and started hanging out in the Motherland for a few years like it was nobody’s business. I never believed him on account of dude being plain old crazy, just like I never believed him when he claimed that he knew George Bush and his cabinet staged the 9-11 attacks. But the more and more I see that big ass nigga on television, looking just a’healthy as a big nigga can be, I’m starting to believe that these fuckers are really pulling the wool over our eyes.

Don’t believe me, just tune in to the game tomorrow night and see for yourself  just how stout dude looks, (and he ain’t even coughing), then ask yourself, “When was the last time an aids patient looked like he could kick my ass but good?”

[ED NOTE: I've also heard that Magic is banging all kinds of chicks these days, even though he always struck me as being kinda teh ghey. -- Bol]

Tupac Shakur Is Way Overrated

For some reason, a few readers of this site have labeled me as being a hater of the late Tupac Shakur. I know, I know, I’m from the East Coast and happened to be down with P. Diddy and the Bad Boy crew (no homo) during the middle of the East/ West coast beef, but I never saw myself as a hater. As a matter of fact, one of my favorite hip hop songs ever is “Hit Em Up” where he basically told me “fuck you too” for being  down with Bad Boy. Anyways, I was extremely saddened by Mr. Shakur’s untimely demise back in 1996 and even commemorated his death by purchasing all of his cd’s that I didn’t own at the time. At the time of his death, there was a lot of talk about how dude was a poet, a leader of our generation and so on and so on. Of course I associated all this talk with the type of sentimental shit that’s said upon someone’s passing. As time passed though, I became intrigued by how dude was becoming some type of legend. I also became annoyed as fuck.

Last week, I was going through all my songs on my ipod and since all of 2pac’s material came up first, I decided that I would give dude a second chance and listen to his music, just in case I had been unfairly judging his status as a hip hop icon. I listened to his first lp, “2Pacalypse Now”, released in 1991, and believe me when I emphatically say that that album sounds like pure effin garbage and I’m somewhat pissed off that I shelled out some of my hard earned cash on this piece of possum shit. There’s like no decent sounding track on it and I can’t decipher what’s worse, his feeble attempt to rhyme or the piss poor sub par production. Even the “breakout” hit single “Brenda’s Got A Baby” was pure kaa kaa, but being that that was like the first rap song dedicated in it’s entirety to every hood rat ghetto single mother across the country, it was deemed to be prolific by every baby momma alive. Eff that, that shit was weak by any hip hop classic standard.  “2Pacalypse Now” got a expeditious delete from my library and I realize I must have been pretty effin amped up a year ago, upon  getting a new ipod , what with me importing  trash like this unto my itunes library.

Next up was his 2nd Lp, “Strictly For My N.I.G.G.A.S” released in 1993.  First and foremost, the title deserves a huge NO HOMO sticker on the cd cover, what with some gay ass title like that. Secondly, I don’t know if the periods embedded in “N.I.G.G.A.S.” is supposed to mean something encoded or some strange Tupac form of Ebonics, whatever, I couldn’t give a rats scrotum about it’s meaning as it’s just plain stupid, then and now!!! The only song on that album that comes even close to being hot is “I Get Around”, but I always saw that as being a Digital Underground song featuring Pac as their weed carrying side artist. What with his first LP being all whack, the Underground decided they would help their lil homey out, similar to how Jay Z helps his lil homey Memphis Bleek out every now and then. Production on that song was tight, Pac’s flow improved dramatically overnight, but Shock G stole the show with his classic line “I’m Shock G, the one who put the satin on your panties.” The rest of the album really really really sucked much moose cock and once again I was pissed that I spent some cash on this vile piece of cat vomit. As I expeditiously deleted this crap from my library, I realized that I must have really been emotional when dude died, what with me including this shit in my music collection. Now I know this lp was released shortly after Pac’s “stunning” acting debut “Juice”, and a whole bunch of people got caught up in his portrayal of the  “Bishop” character, but to me, his character suffered from a severe case of bi-polar based mental issues and since I actually knew cats like that back in the day in Brooklyn, I wasn’t impressed since they were all mental bitch made niggas until they had a gun in their hands. In addition, since “Juice” was Pac’s movie, why was the hottest song on the actual soundtrack “Know The Ledge” by Eric B. and Rakim? Sheet, Pac’s music was nowhere on the whole effin cd!!! A lot of people bought into it, but I for one didn’t sip the “juice”.

Next up was “Me Against The World” released in 1995. Now I gotta hand it to that nigga Pac, the hype surrounding this album’s release was incredible and effin unheard of at the time. First, dude got all shot up with five hot ones in his ass (no homo) in a New York studio in 1994 and SURVIVES!!! He then checks himself out of the hospital for “security” reasons and also, because he has to make it to court on a rape charge. I remember the image of Pac getting wheeled out of the courthouse days after being shot, all bandaged up with his middle finger pointed straight to the heavens and thinking “What a gully ass crazy muh fucker this dude is turning into!”  He then gets sentenced to a bid in jail and starts blaming like the entire East Coast for all of his misfortunes and I’m feeling really sorry for dude, what with his little ass getting all plundered (no homo) all Oz style behind bars. Then the single “Dear Mama” comes out and it’s the first time dude has great production, rapping skills are intact and he’s saying some shit EVERYBODY can relate to. That song right there is genius in the same way Stevie Wonder’s “Happy Birthday” is geniuos, its an effin holiday song that will get played like forever and ever. An effin Mother’s Day song!!!!  The only other song on there that’s worthy of a playback is “Old School” what with its tight production and Pac’s improved rhyme cadence. The rest of the album is ehh, lukewarm, not as bad as his prior two releases, but decent enough, especially since the hype behind it made it damn near impossible not to wonder what this crazy ass nigga was talking about!!! Other than the two aforementioned songs, the rest of the lp got deleted from my library.

Exclusive: Jay-Z plans comeback

I ran into my homey G recently (no homo). G’s name has been changed to protect his identity since this post might get out and fuck up his game. Anyways, G is a somewhat well known producer who happened to produce one of the biggest hip hop songs for one of the biggest hip hop stars in 1999. He also happens to be working very closely behind the scenes with Rapstress Foxy Brown. I asked G how progress on her album was coming, since she happens to be the only female emcee currently working within the music industry machine that I’m interested in hearing what she has to say.  He said everything was going well, shit was hot and that we can expect a July/ August 2005 release.

Knowing that G’s always in the studio with Fox Boogie, I asked him how Jay Z was handling his new position as President of Def Jam and head honcho A&R. G responded that Jay was extremely supportive of Fox, anything she needed in order to get this project moving was hers, the whole carte blanche thing. Not satisfied with that answer, I pressed, “Yo, isn’t Jay like, a little weird sometimes?” G instantly had this look on his face like he knew exactly what I was talking about, but seemed tentative to share, since he’s in a good situation and in no way wants to jeopardize his hustle, and lord knows niggas these days need to keep a good paying job. He answered in a whispery voice, “Yeah man, Jay is mad cool, but these days, all he does is rap!” “I mean, like, for real ALL this nigga does is rap, non stop.” “Niggas be ordering late nite dinner (on account of late hours recording in the studio) and he’s effin rapping. We might take a break from work and get into some NBA Live or some X-Box and this nigga’s rapping. The other day, Jay went in the bathroom to take a shit and all we hear is him grunting and effin rapping.”

WTF? So, I’m like “word, does dude ever just talk to ya’ll?” G answered, “Man, last week Fox had a real important question about a particular song and dude answered her in rhyme, straight up. The hard part is that we all respect Jay incredibly, and dude is really extending himself on this project, what with his and Fox’s history and the whole Brooklyn thing, and true, shit nigga be rhyming about is fiyah, but sometimes, just sometimes, I’m feeling like telling dude to just shut the Fuck up!!!!”  Then G drops the bomb, “Jay Z is rhyming like he’s about to record a new album. He just effin jacked Bleek for like the hottest track on his album “Dear Summer,” and now he’s trying to jack Fox for like four hot beats of her own!!!”

Apparently, Jay read my post about his not so great oratorical skills and, being that I struck a very sensitive nerve, decided to retreat into his little rapper’s cocoon. I’m glad I helped dude realize his speech impediment and assisted him greatly in coping in the only way he knows how. Shawn Carter is extremely fortunate that as a retard, not only has he found a way to communicate effectively to the outside world, but his sole manner of communication continues to yield him a fortune financially. I wish I was able to join him in some of the board meetings with some of those cracka ass crackas and tall Israelis that run Def Jam and the Universal Music group, because seeing him rap to whitey, in response to their questions would be priceless.  Sheet, those very same crackas and Israelis damn near owe me a royalty on his next LP, being that he has finally realized that without rapping, there is no Shawn Carter and no Jay Z. As Bol mentioned in his earlier post, it’s safe to say that we can expect a new joint from Mr. Carter either later this year on at the top of next year. Holla!

Corey Clark and Paula Abdul

Whose Booty? Part 2 - Special American Idol Edition
I occasionally tune in to Fox’s monstrous hit of a show “American Idol,” but for the most part, I’m pretty much detached from that hot mess, until THE OTHER EFFIN NITE when I accidentally tuned into the Primetime Live special which drew 13.8 million viewers. I knew nothing about this Corey Clark cat, and couldn’t have cared less until I watched him throw Paula Abdul’s poor ole ass under an effin bus. Dude “exposed” Ms. Abdul in accusation after pretty damning accusation alleging that Ms. Thing unprofessionally helped dude out during the 2003 season of the show. He claims Ms. Abdul assisted him in selecting wardrobe, cleaned his durty broke country ass off, provided him with haircuts and such, as well as providing him with a “special” cell phone to be used exclusively between he and her. He claims she even selected material for him to perform while competing which would give him a tremendous advantage with the big jig nigga judge over the rest of his competitors. He then delivered a deathblow when he claimed Ms. Abdul backed that thang up on dude proper like. Dayum!!!

I guess shit gets thick (n/h) because supposedly, the show’s contractual rules pertaining to appropriate behavior are extremely stringent and if violated, contestants as well as judges will be subject to ejection amongst other harsh penalties. I remember they threw that big bitch Frenchie off the show on account of her not informing the show that she exposed her big old ass on some big bitch porn site, so I would expect Paul a Abdul to be pretty much SHOOK at this very effin moment.

Now, I know controversy makes the world go round, but what I can’t get is why dude would be so upset and vengeful over getting hisself a slice of MILF-ish celebrity snatch, … unless there’s more to the story. Now, I’m certainly not an expert on this, but something didn’t seem exactly right with dude in the first place, and I’m not referring to his country drawl. However, when Primetime decided to get his two “homeboy” weed carriers to comment on the veracity of Corey’s allegations, shit was as clear as air. Now any healthy and wholesome young American male at the ripe age of 20 would gracefully tap that ass and would psychologically carry that shit proudly like an effin Olympic Gold medal to his death bed. Mr. Clark however, appears not to be a wholesome young American male. As he and his "buddies" proudly exuded last nite, Corey and entourage are an effin pack of cocksmokers!!!

Think about it, dude kept every single receipt, every single phone record, every lil piece of evidence he could (just like my ole lady would do), passed notes around with Paula like they were playing tiddly winks, and even had the gall to record some fagged out sounding r&b record like a freakin bitch made dude using lines from Paula’s 1992 smash hit “Straight Up”. Now if Mr. Clark and his buddies Roget and Jovan ain’t fudgepacking pillow biters, then ship me straight the eff off to Iraq with a sheepskin jacket and black Durango motorcycle boots (no homo).

I guess the “three amigos” probably feel like this is payback for Paula “violating” the leader of their cheerleader squad, I dunno, but I do know how vicious those queens can get, you know, that whole “hell hath no fury like a woman scorned” shit.

Now if I were one of Paula’s advisors, I’d advise her to be wrong and strong with this shit  and “expose” how tinker bell and his flaming self kept harassing her 24/7 about where’d she get her shoes, who does her hair, could he borrow money to cop some of her blush and all that queen type shit butt buggerers get into when they start hanging out with pretty girls. Hell, I’d even advise her to go so far as to claim dude stalked her and broke into her crib to steal some Mac eyeliner and accessories, along with some hot pink Manolo Blahnik pumps. Now Paula ain’t that bright, what with wasting some poontang on a poo putt on like that. I don’t know about ya’ll, but I’m pretty much certain if she gave Rueben Studdard’s big burly sweaty ass (n/h) a piece of tang, dude’s coonish smile would have been a whole lot wider during that ’03 season. Off course, Paula would very much have to worry about Rueben coming back and bribing her for a year’s supply of Super Smokers Barbecue Baby Back Ribs, drenched in their secret delicious special sauce, but that’s a story for another day.

What happened to that boy?

According to the news, “production of the popular Comedy Central series “Chapelle’s Show” has been suspended and its third season’s premiere indefinitely delayed.” Last summer, Dave signed a deal with Comedy Central “reportedly worth $50 million for a third and fourth season. The two year agreement also allowed Chapelle to develop other programming for the cable channel and cut him in on DVD sales, a lucrative factor considering his series’ first –season DVD sold more than 2 million copies.”

Man, this shit is fucked up on so many different levels.

1. Chappelle’s Show happens to be one of my all time favorite shows.

2. This jig was the only young cat of the hip hop generation currently doing it in a major way on network television.

3. Dude just pocketed $50 effin million bucks and he’s not delivering.

So help me God, I’m hoping the gay jew cracka ass crackas over at Comedy Central are being all types of racists and fagged out with Dave, fucking with him, impeding him and the production of his show the way jealous fagged out crackas do when a jig of “power” starts making moves and pushing the envelope with material they deem to be too “racy” or “controversial.” I’m praying they’re hating big time on that jigged out, fat lipped buck toothed narrow ass negorid because of the size and weight of his deal and making him go through all types of fucked up shit Faggywood makes a nigga go through just so he can earn his keep.

I’m hoping all of this because if this debacle is somehow that nigga’s fault, if that effin jig took that $50 million and decided that he just ain’t delivering on some quasi hip hop hype inspired thug life shit, or if he’s somewhere on his 65-acre farm in the cornfields of Ohio, where he lives with that chigger wife and two children of his, smoking major dank and wanking the eff off hourly on a daily basis, that bitch ass nigga just fucked it up for every talented jig trying to get their fifteen seconds of fame up in Faggyywood. If that’s the case, Dave’s in major trouble cause those jew fag cracka ass bastids don’t play when it comes to their money and niggas effin it up. I hope this is not the case, because if it is, we may have seen the very effin last of Dave “I’m Rich Bitch” Chappelle.

The Mong

A couple of weeks ago, I jumped on the train headed to Manhattan since I had to meet my accountant to take care of some taxes. It was one of those incredible spring days where the weather was just right and the chicks really took advantage by wearing their new low cut jeans to proudly show belly rings, tatoos, hips, ass and thongs. Anyway, the car I'm riding in is fairly crowded and I take my position leaning against one of the sliding doors (anyone familiar with the New York City subway system knows that leaning against the door is prime real estate in a crowded subway car when no seats are available). I have to mention that whenever I'm travelling around in this crazy ass city, I become what you would call a people watcher. I have a knack for noticing all sorts of people in my surroundings along with whatever they're wearing or whatever types of shit they're doing. Anyways, as I'm minding my own business, there's this white fifty-something year old man standing in front of me with his back facing me (no homo). He appears to be in pretty good shape for an older dude (no homo). So after a couple of stops, I look down and realize that dude is wearing a pair of low cut jeans just like the chicks do, then upon further inspection, and when I say no homo, I say it with all conviction, I realize that dude is wearing a man thong!!!

After a couple of deep breaths to gather myself from the horror of being confronted with this nasty ass scene, I realize that I'm trapped!!! Dude, with ipod on, is listening to some Swing Out Sister or some other tey ghey jams, he's grooving his gay groove on, and I'm praying to the train gods that this train doesn't go into a lurch, causing Elton John's man thonged gay ass to brush up all on me, causing me to shove him away, get into all types of altercation and wind up getting arrested. The funny shit is that, just like in that Austin Powers' flick where Austin meets the agent with the big ass mole on his face and no matter how hard he tries to ignore and take his mind off it, all Austin sees is MOLE, all I'm seeing is dude's MAN THONG and I'm like “who in the world would want to invent some shit like that and what the fuck do you call it?” Now, a chick's thong is, for the most part delicately thin and silky or nylon-ey looking whereas dude's Mong was thicker, more rugged and made out of some tough looking neoprene material. Trust me when I say I wish I wasn't able to share with you all the gory details, but everytime I looked up I had MONG within my eyesight. Now I hope that that's the last time in my life I ever see an effin Mong, but judging by how happy and liberated Kevin Spacey  seemed during that train ride, it looks like an new invasion is about to hit the U.S. and Mong season is headed to a city near you. No homo.

Combat Jack = Skeevy perv sicko freak

So, this was not a good weekend for your boy Combat Jack. Saturday nite, I decided I was going to hang out with my boys (no homo) and do some man style drinking. My beloved wife decided, while I was throwing some back, that she was going to find out why I had been spending so much time hunched over my laptop these past couple of months. Now mind you, up until this weekend, I never informed her that I had taken up blogging as a new hobby. Not that I was hiding it either, but I figured that when bol and I took this site to the next level, I would proudly disclose to her the fruits of my labor and she would beam as a loving wife and cook me a fine ass Chinese African American meal.

Not so. Saturday evening (or Sunday morning) I stumble home and she greets me with an acidic “Hi Combat Jack” welcome. Before I could even wrap my drunk mind around those words, she starts slinging shit at me about how I'm some sick skeevy perv, setting up mimosa dates with someone named “Mom”, hanging out with that sicko fuck Brian Peppers, having a jack fest over Vida Guerra's nude downloads then posting that her shots were “heaven”, having an e- affair with someone named “Whitegirl, along with all types of other “taken way out of context” rapid fire ass accusations.

Oh, did I mention she went absolutely nuclear and let me know clearly that we never had a “fucking shotgun wedding”. Trying to be quick on my feet and attempting to make lemonade out of lemons, I try stress to her the humor in my comments and point out that her man has happily discovered his inner writer and ask her what she thinks about my newfound skills. She effin goes nutso about this secret life I'm leading and even suggests that I am in some fine need of counselling (meanwhile, I'm thinking her hot ass is definitely begging for some mental coaching).