ByronCrawford.com

Jesus Was My Best Friend - A True Story

During my 2nd year in college, I started going through some real depressing shit. In the midst of having the best four years of my life, life started getting all serious on me when the following course of events occured:

1. My girl tells me she's pregnant. Being too young to be a parent, she gets an abortion. I missed the appointment because the night before, I drunkenly fell asleep in the arms of another girl across campus. Feeling like an asshole, I start getting all types of heavy and guilt ridden. We of course break up.

2. My next chick, which I'm hitting on the regular gets pregnant! Fuck! So she has an abortion (this time I make the appointment only to arrive at the clinic, surrounded by protesting pro-lifers holding up all types of “Straight to Hell” signs) and now I'm really fucked up in the head.

3. This jealous Chinese dude shoots his girlfriend dead then takes himself out in the dorm right across from mine.

4. Some shit pops off in the Middle East and all this talk starts up on campus about the possibility of nuclear war and the end of the world as we know it.

5. I had done horribly my freshman year, was on probation and was miserably failing statistics, which meant, if I failed, I would fail out of school, thus becoming a hopeless loser on the streets of Bed Stuy, Brooklyn.

The level of depression I'm experiencing is like nothing I ever felt before. So, one day, I'm in my dorm room listening to some Prince when my boy Phil stops by. He and I were cool since we were on line together(I had pledged a frat the year before). He's all pensive and shit, shooting the shit about nothing in particular when out of the blue, dude states that Prince's music was devil music and not particularly good for my soul. Wtf? I'm like “huh?” He then proceeds to ask me if I were to die today, was I 100% certain I would go to heaven? I reflexively said “hell yeah”, but inside, that shit had me really fucked up. Normally, I would have told dude to get the flying fuck out of my room, but alas, I was depressed and not yet the worldly and experienced Combat Jack that I am today. Sensing that my shit wasn't tight, Phil invited me to a prayer meeting that night.

The Source don't luv dem hoes

Ah, The Source magazine, once a staple of fresh, accurate, truthful, insightful and enjoyable journalism for our vivrant hip hop culture. I remember the days when it was a privilege for me to be up in those hallowed and esteemed offices, smoking blunts alongside the original Mind Squad members, former editors Jon Schecter and Reginald Dennis, writers like Kierna Mayo, Chris Wilder, Ronin Ro, photographers like Sue Kwon and Chi Modu, real cool honest cats that helped make The Source the fine journalistic institution it is today. My have things changed.

As you've probably heard, The Source is now being sued up the effin whazoo. According to the New York Post and allhiphop.com, Kim Osorio and Michelle Joyce, former Source editor and vice president of marketing respectively, have brought sexual harassment suits against co-owners Dave Mays and “emcee extraordinaire” Ray “Benzino” Scott. Osorio and Joyce allege that cats started runnin shit like an effin Amsterdam brothel, what with dudes feelin on they bootays, slanging derogatory words like they were in an episode of HBO's Deadwood, and pulling out dicks in front of female employees and requesting that said female employees put em in their mouths for lunch. To make matters worse, I hear that some writers are actually getting bitch slapped and choked for even mentioning Eminem's name or playing his music within “rap legend” Benzino's earshot. So much for journalistic integrity.

In addition, ever since Benzino, "the greatest rapper of all time," (G.O.A.T.)  decided to cook some  rap beef and “clap back” at Eminem, record company giant Interscope Records has pulled millions of its advertising dollars and recently, Def Jam Records threatened to pull all of their advertising dollars from the Source, causing the “God emcee” Benzino to “resign” from his post last week(however he announced early this week that he has reinstated himself as co-owner).

In countering Ms. Osorio's harassment suit, “hip hop super star” Benzino claims that she “slept around with many industry artists,” backing that ass up and puttin 'em on the glass for damn near anyone who had a record deal. Now I don't know jack about Kim's sex life, but what with “King of Rap” Zino running shit tighter than a red light district whorehouse, always talking about how he's ready to choke a bitch, it's not hard to see how, in order to avoid getting an open handed back slap to the jaw, Osorio might have been “mentally” trained to believe that granting sexual favors to rappers and their weed carriers had somehow become part of her job description.

Today, yours truly had the exclusive opportunity to talk with one of the actual co-plaintiffs about her lawsuit (really). I asked her how much money she was looking to win. She replied “I know for a fact that The Source doesn't have any money. For what they did to us as women of color, I am trying to shut them down!” Damn, I guess that's what up with that scorned woman shit. She also stated that since bringing this suit, she has been in constant fear for her safety as “rap immortal” Benzino is known to resort to nefarious thuggish tactics. She is on constant alert for ex-members of the Almighty R.S.O. or The Made Men (or whatever the fuck other whack crews “The Archnemesis” has been affiliated with) showing up to her home with the intention of silencing her up but good. Keep yer head up girl, and invest in some heat for those cold nights.

Anyways, as of yesterday, ever since Bol's racial persuasion came into issue, I'm thinking about sending my resume and writing samples over to the Source with the hopes of landing a job there. At least I would know for certain that I would be writing for a black (co-) owned establishment and this might be my only opportunity to link up with “the iconic” Benzino. Plus, with all the goings on and what not, it seems like the Source has become a really fun place to work these days.

Combat Jack is for the children

Last night I received an e-mail from a friend of mine putting me up on this site: www.criminalcheck.com. What’s interesting about this site is that all you have to do is punch in your zip code where requested and every registered sex offender living in your neighborhood will pop up, along with their address and actual sex offense(s)!

Now, I have no interest looking up and locating these disgusting sick ass type of fucks, but for those of you out there who have kids, younger siblings, moms, aunts, girlfriends, cousins, nieces, nephews or an Internet Bitch Crew, this site is a real nifty tool and could come in handy. I thought I would be doing my good deed for the week by passing this out to all of you upstanding American citizens out there in cyberspace; Please use this info for your and your family’s protection, and remember, Combat Jack is for the children!

Whose booty?

The other day I was in the kitchen looking for something to eat when, from the living room, I overheard a conversation taking place between my wife and one of her girlfriends. It went something like this:

Friend -“Oh, Lil Kim? Girl, she definitely looks like her booty stinks!”

Wife - “Most definitely, your'e right about that!”

Now I in the hell don't know how the eff they decided to get on that topic, but that led me to think “Hmmm, Kim actually does look like her booty stank. I wonder what other of my “favorite” r&b and hip hop honey's have a mal-odoriferous issue down in their nether regions.” Some I came up with were: Foxy Brown, Da Brat, pre-Slim Fast Missy Elliot, Trina and Ciara (cause she's always making these stank faces). I don't know where I'm going with this, but now, everytime I catch a video featuring females, I get to thinking...

[ED Note: I agree with Combat Jack, most of these rap chicks probably do have smelly nether regions.]

I smoked a blunt with 2Pac

Combat Jack's Top 5 gulliest moments he's experienced first hand in the music industry (that you won't hear about anywhere else on the whole effin planet but here)

SEE ALSO: Parts 5, 4, 3 and 2

#1. The time I smoked a blunt with Tupac (sorta), no homo

Back in 1992, I was working with some more gully Mount Vernon niggas. We were working on a rap group called “Ground Zero” who were supposed to be like the East Coast version of NWA. These niggas had a lil spark and even had a deal on Atlantic Records (don’t worry if you don’t recall hearing about them, they were dropped from the label about a week after this story took place), but these jigs were really crazy, like, not right in the head.

They were all cousins (I think inbred) and when they weren’t rhyming or writing “hot shit,” they would get all drunk and start fighting each other for real. I mean, there was one incident when, in the midst of a drunken spell, they started fighting amongst each other in the streets, which eventually escalated into a lil game of gun play where one of ‘em got shot in the arm. Believe me when I say these cats were effin idjits!!! Anyway, they had a “road manager” (he was actually their weed carrier) who went by the name of “Easy Lee.” Easy was one of those pretty boy (no homo) type of cats who was actually real grimy, so much so that that you wouldn’t trust him near your cash, your girl, your moms, your kids, your CDs, your clothes, you flat out couldn’t trust this fucker. I wonder why he didn’t just call himself Greezy Lee.

Anyways, Ground Zero ended up getting a gig to perform out in this ghetto ass club in Queens, New York. It was a promotional date and they were opening up for the late, great Tupac Shakur. This was around the time that ‘Pac was straight up whack, had just made his acting debut in the film “Juice” and had one hit called “I Get Around”(which was actually the first song of his that I liked (no homo). On the night of the scheduled performance, Me, Greezy, Ground Zero, and a few other cats (no homo) drove to the club and when we got there, the place was packed around the entire block. To make matters worse, this was like the coldest night I ever experienced in my life!!! It was about 2 degrees with a wind chill factor of like negative 25! There was like a thousand chicks waiting on line for hours, waiting to catch a glimpse of Tupac with nothing on but halter-tops and opened toed shoes. I didn’t get it because I was wearing like three pairs of socks and a pair of Timberland boots and it was so cold, my toes felt like I had stuffed said socks with razor blades.

To make shit even more horrific, the bouncers at the door didn’t give a rat’s ass who the eff me and Ground Zero were and were definitely not letting us in. After waiting for like an hour, Tupac arrives with his crew (including the future G.O.A.T., Biggie Smalls, who at the time was ‘Pac’s lowly weed carrier). To this day, I’ll never figure out how, but Greezy Lee managed to slip his greasy ass (no homo) into Pac’s entourage and disappeared inside the club alongside them. Five minutes go by, I know for sure that my feet are frostbitten and that I will probably have to have one of ‘em surgically removed thus becoming gimped up, Ground Zero start getting antsy, cussing at each other, shoving and looking like they’re about to start fighting and shooting at each other when Greezy comes out with a bouncer, points in our direction and tells dude to let the group in. Ground Zero gets escorted in and this other 800 pound cocksmoking bouncer sticks his meaty ass hands in my chest and blocks me from entering. Tearfully (no homo), I watch the posse enter the club.

Tragedy Khadafi likes his Cris warm

Combat Jack's Top 5 gulliest moments he's experienced first hand in the music industry (that you won't hear about anywhere else on the whole effin planet but here)

SEE ALSO: Parts 5, 4 and 3

#2. Tragedy Khadafi Likes His Cris Warm

Tragedy Khadafi is a good dude (no homo). He doesn’t, however, get the recognition he deserves. He was a junior member of the legendary Juice Crew, he mentored and actually named Havoc (of “Mobb Deep” fame), he discovered CNN (Capone –N- Noriega) and was fully responsible for their classic underground LP The War Report. He was also featured on the only diss record fired back against 2pac and the Dogg Pound during the East-West coast beef (“LA, LA,” also featuring Mobb Deep and C-N-N).

So the year is 1999 and Trag is feeling a bit down (cause life has a way of kicking a nigga’s ass every now and then). To cheer him up, I suggest that we head to a party that Gorilla Pimp Sean Combs is throwing cross-town. We get to the joint and are ushered into the V.I.P. section which looked great (the walls were draped with some velvety red curtains and the chicks were definitely on some video ho material). Around midnight, Diddy steps in the club and decides to open up the bar in our section. Trag and I go apeshit and start throwing drinks back like we had been stranded in the Sahara desert for 15 days with no canteen in sight.

After an hour of doing some serious man-style drinking, Puff ups the ante (along with some other baller crews chilling in the cut) and decides its time to treat the crowd to bottles of Cristal. The wait staff starts bringing out mad ice buckets stocked with yellow bottles and it’s on. Almost everyone in the area has access to at least 2.5 of their own bottles of the fine bubbly. Everything is going real perfecto, chicks looking and smelling good, dancing, trees is burning, niggas is all types of happy with no types of gun talk in the air, the dj (I think it was Flex) is spinning hit after hit after blood clot hit, we’re partying like it’s, well, um, 1999 and Trag is smiling (no homo).

Anyways, after downing our respective second bottles of Cris, Trag pulls me to the side with a real serious and concerned look in his eye and asks me where the men’s room is. In my blissfully drunken state, I explain that it's past the V.I.P. ropes, through the dance floor (jam packed with about 700 sweaty dancing patrons), up the crowded narrow ass stairs, right behind the capacity filled lounge, where finally, there’s probably a line with a wait time of about 10-15 minutes. He processes the information and says “cool.” A few minutes later, there’s like one unattended bottle of Cris left, and from the corner of my eye, I spot Trag grabbing it along with the effin ice bucket, greedy ass motherfucker!

P. Diddy = Gorilla Pimp

Combat Jack's Top 5 gulliest moments he's experienced first hand in the music industry (that you won't hear about anywhere else on the whole effin planet but here)

SEE ALSO: Parts 5 and 4

#3. P. Diddy Is A Gorilla Pimp

Spring 1995, New York City. Bad Boy Entertainment is hip hop's number 1 label on the East Coast and the G.O.A.T. Biggie Smalls was still alive. Jessica Rosenbaum (the Jewish American Princess bitch who promotes hip hop functions) threw a weekly dinner dance event at a club called Esso's where all the "beautiful" hip hop industry folks could gather, talk mad shit and waste ungodly amounts of money on liquor, party and bullshit.

In addition to his growing record empire, Puffy was making his name as a producer and one of the many artists he produced a song for at the time (I don't think I ever heard it) was Brooklyn rapper Positive K. K seemed like a cool dude, ran with Audio Two and MC Lyte and even scored a nationwide hit with a single called "I Gotta Man." Anyways, I'm sitting at a table with my folks and Puffy and his weed carrying entourage make a grand entrance. Shortly thereafter, Positive K walks in dolo. Puffy sees K and approaches him. Apparently, Positive K (or, more specifically, his record label) hadn't gotten around to paying Puff his producer fee (which was something like 5 thousand dollars) and Puff was heated.

In addition, I heard that both Puff and K were in Los Angeles a week earlier and when Puff stepped to K about his dough, K was like "You? Nigga please, I'll get atcha when I get at ya, Bitch!" So, at Club Esso's, when Puff steps to K again, he asks "Yo nigga, you got my money?" K looks at Puff like "whatever nigga" and starts to walk away when Puff whips out his cell phone (phones at the time were about the size of a brick) and starts whupping on K's head like there's no effin tomorrow! The place goes crazy, chicks are sceaming, folks are scrambling around and Positive K is catching a royal cell phone ass beating by none other than Sean "Puffy" Combs.

Pete Rock = Not a snitch

Combat Jack's Top 5 gulliest moments he's experienced first hand in the music industry (that you won't hear about anywhere else on the whole effin planet but here)

#4. Pete Rock Is Not A Snitch

Back around 1993, Pete Rock was God in the greater New York City area. He was in one of the hottest rap groups (Pete Rock & CL Smooth (although I never understood whut the eff CL was saying)), he was producing hits for everyone (RUN DMC, Nas, etc.).

Around that time, a lot of of music industry players came from the Northern town of Mount Vernon (Puffy, Heavy D and the Boyz, Pete and CL). Anyways, Pete at the time, being the good dude that he is, was trying to put a local rap group called the the YG'z (short for “Young Gunz”) on. He provided these dudes with a lil cash, supplied them with ample beats and even got them a record deal with either Uptown or MCA. The problem was that these cats were really turrible. In addition, these dudes were all like ex-cons or professional crooks or some shit like that and they had no reason being in the music industry. Their single comes out and it effin stinks like cabbage and chitlins stew, they get dropped and start leaning on Pete. I guess they figure Pete's gonna continue funding them, “riding” with them or whatever the fuck real thugs think they man's an 'em is supposed to do. Pete, however, realizes that these cats were a bad investment of time and energy and summarily cuts them off.

That summer, I attended a “Mt. Vernon Family Day” picnic. It was one of those picturesque days (like in a music video) and everyone was there enjoying Heavy D's special barbeque chicken and ribs. Pete, with chicken in hand, is rapping to this dime piece on her huge picnic blanket when the YG'z. show up. One of 'em requests Pete's attention and when Pete gets up to talk, the YG knocks Pete Rock in the jaw with an uppercut, catapulting dude clean over the huge ass picnic blanket. The chick is screaming, cats are scrambling to get out of there, Pete is convulsing on the ground with barbeque sauce all over his bright yellow Cross Colours jersey (cause he's knocked the fuck out) and the YG'z are rifling through his pockets Debo style. Heav and the rest of the “Mt. Vernon” crew don't say shit (I guesss because the YG'z were really that gully). Pete then gets up, recovers immediately and sprints, OJ-style, across the picnic grounds with the YG'z on his tail (no homo).

RA the Rugged Man's sloppy seconds

Combat Jack's Top 5 gulliest moments he's experienced first hand in the music industry (that you won't hear about anywhere else on the whole effin planet but here)

I've been out of the music industry for over a year (with no regrets) and I realize that I've witnessed first hand some real gully shit. I decided to share with you some of my top 5 experiences (in count down fashion) over the next couple of days (weeks) starting today. Enjoy!!!

#5: R.A. The Rugged Man politely offers his sloppy seconds.

I used to work with R.A. a few years ago. I like dude (no homo). Sure he looks dirty as fuck and has been misunderstood for years (mainly for actually pulling his pink (no homo) meat stick out in front of a female employee at his former label, Jive Records. Anyways, I could never get over the fact that someone who so aptly epitomized white trailer park trash not only had mad skills as an emcee, but had cats that were really respected in the game collaborate with him on some joints (notably, pre 1997 Mobb Deep and the late great G.O.A.T., Biggie Smalls).

Anyways, one day, dude comes to my office with some skanky (but fuckable) white trailer trash biker chick. We're discussing business and this chick isn't saying an effin word. About 25 minutes into our meeting, R.A. asks me what I think of the chick, and I tell him she's decent. He then tells the chick to take off all her clothes, which she does completely (except for her socks) in the middle of my office in the middle of the effin day in the middle of midtown Manhattan. I'm checking her out and R.A. explains that this is one of his many jiz guzzling she whores and proceeds to ask me if I wants a piece.

Rap snitch knish?

Now there's a lot of hype today surrounding Lil Kim's trial, specifically a lot of  her fans calling out members of the Jr. Mafia for being snitches for dropping dime on Lil' Kim's perjuring ass. Now I know all these muh'  fuckers were the Notorious B.I.G.'s weed carriers, but shit, I'd be a weed carrier for the nicest emcee anyday (R.I.P. B.I.G.). Anyways, I happen to know Cease personally and I give dude a lotta respect because 1) he had aspirations to graduate from weed carrier to emcee 2) he still strives to carry on the legacy (?) of Junior Mafia, 3) B.I.G. had mad love for dude  4) I still see dude in the hood on the regular (no homo), and 5) I'd be pissed off as shit too if I went from being Big's weed carrier to Lil' Kim's weed carrier!