This is how your beefs start, Hip-Hop. You will all remember this day. Not because Cormega has a project dropping today (who knew?), but because he thinks Drake is an insufferable rich bastard and therefore should not be rapping. If you have never sat a little black and white television on top of a busted floor model, or feasted upon Top Ramen and syrup sandwiches for dinner, or shook the roaches from your sneakers before heading off to public school, then you are not Hip-Hop, Drake! If you have not suffered the entire narrative of Ghostface Killa’s “All I Got Is You”, then put the blasted mic down! Find another job, you horrid Canadian tool! How dare you sully Hip-Hop’s good name with the stench of your middle-class lifestyle and honorably-earned, wheelchair-bound Degrassi money? The entire legacy of Hip-Hop is drowning in a pool of tears due to your transgressions!
To recap: Poor = Hip-Hop. Not poor = Not Hip-Hop, according to Cormega, who wrote the book on this subject and has been successful at it for many, many years.
Cormega On Drake “I Can’t Fuck With Drake. I Can’t Take Him Serious. He’s Rich…” — Worldstar Hip-Hop
How is it that I had no idea DMX was allowed near complex electronics such as computers, much less that he was on Twitter? Apparently he has been ALL-CAPping it for about 7 months, which has resulted in a grand total of 45 shouty updates. Aside from railing against the promoters of a recent show in Col. Springs, the rest of his stream is comprised of oscillations between peace-loving, spiritual Shaman and batshit insane rap nigga. It’s glorious. These infrequent peeks into X’s consciousness are rather like visiting your crazy-ass uncle at The Home–You know he’ll scream on your ass but he probably also has some good weed.
Caught on tape: Drunken, cartoon rapper/pastor Murder Mase bursts into Sean Diddy Combs’ masturbatorium and gleefully demands freedom from his diabolical oppressor. Now Mase fans around the world, for whom time is frozen and the turn of the century has yet to happen, can rejoice in the prospect of slurry, cutesy rap music hitting the airwaves without the burden of an arrogant CEO’s invasive ad-libs.
We open on a dimly-lit, cavernous nightclub on straight night. In the midst of this bacchanalian decadence is national treasure and Taylor Swift-interrupting cyborg Kanye West, who is sporting a convoluted mullet and has gone on a ravenous cocaine binge. After belligerently insisting on paying for a champagne delivery, wastefully gifted upon him by the nightclub owner’s vampire brides, the cyborg realizes that the deejay is playing one of his own songs. The audience, regretfully, also realizes this as the cyborg makes his way through the crowd, interrupting otherwise peaceful club-goers in strict accordance to his M.O. He then bumps into Fonzworth Bentley, who mistakenly doesn’t realize this is straight night. The cyborg suddenly finds himself in a mysterious room where he begins to have sexual intercourse with a woman that has neither watched TV, listened to the radio, logged on to the Internet or subscribes to Tiger Beat, or she would know who this cyborg is and would not be having sex with him. Cut to: The cyborg is back in the V.I.P. area, waking up from a deep sleep on the couch with his pants around his ankles because it really isn’t straight night. He then stumbles to the bathroom and vomits an entire sink’s worth of rose petals. When he crashes to the floor like a pussy, he notices the Aztec hunting knife used to kill Jason Voorhees in Jason Goes to Hell: The Final Friday. As he screams like a pussy, he slices himself open and more rose petals spew forth from his abdomen, revealing an umbilical cord. Attached to the umbilical cord is a disgusting little furry hellbeast that resembles Pat Sajak. The cyborg releases it, setting the Pat Sajak mutant on the sink. They look into each other’s eyes and have a tender moment of unspoken words. Then the cyborg detaches a mini-hunting knife from the hunting knife he just used and hands it to the disgusting Pat Sajak bastard, who then slices open his own abdomen and dies on the sink like a pussy. The End.
If you’re anything like me and have watched at least 5 minutes of MTV’s My Super Sweet 16, you probably thought to yourself “Gasp! These shrill, entitled young people are mutants! These little shits must meet their grisly end on film!” Yes, those very words crossed your mind, in that order. You must also then enjoy shitfully-acted slasher flicks with piss-poor dialog and an assortment of cleavage. Enter My Super Psycho Sweet 16, an original MTV movie that fulfills the stabby fantasies of old, broke Americans all over America. It premiers 10/23. I do not have cable so I won’t be watching. One of the main reasons I don’t want cable is because of MTV, obviously.
This is how your beefs start, Hip-Hop. You will all remember this day. Not because Cormega has a project dropping today (who knew?), but because he thinks Drake is an insufferable rich bastard and therefore should not be rapping. If you have never sat a little black and white television on top of a busted floor model, or feasted upon Top Ramen and syrup sandwiches for dinner, or shook the roaches from your sneakers before heading off to public school, then you are not Hip-Hop, Drake! If you have not suffered the entire narrative of Ghostface Killa’s “All I Got Is You”, then put the blasted mic down! Find another job, you horrid Canadian tool! How dare you sully Hip-Hop’s good name with the stench of your middle-class lifestyle and honorably-earned, wheelchair-bound Degrassi money? The entire legacy of Hip-Hop is drowning in a pool of tears due to your transgressions!
How is it that I had no idea DMX was allowed near complex electronics such as computers, much less that he was on