B.E.Teamwork

So, after spending the day soaking up sun at the beach and the evening eating some of the BAWSSest azz sushi San Diego County has to offer, I get home and realized I've already missed 43 minutes of this year's BET Awards. But, good thing I had on my thinking lacefront cuz I came home for a second between missions to set my DVR to tape the pre-show and the Awards.

Since I'm a thug's THUG and a gangsta's GANGSTA, I can say this without fear of being sent up to the Heaven For A G, but:

I.DIDN'T.HATE.THE.BET.AWARDS


I honestly thought they did an excellent job in honoring Michael Jackson's work and legacy in the time allotted to them. I enjoyed the MJ tribute get-ups as well as the performances infused with MJ references.And the feel of the ceremony was JUST RIGHT as it was far more celebratory than sad. And for that, I'm grateful because my eyes didn't need another tear bath, man. R.I.P. Mikey-J!






I was pleasantly surprised to see ALL 6 member of New Edition paying homage to the man that paved the way for their group to be able to exist in the first place.
Besides the fact that Ralph Tresvant's voice was in immediate need of an oil change along with a dash of Astroglide by the pizzound: I LOVED the performance.
Yes, your uncle would have been able to sound like Eddie Kane trying to prove to the Heartbeats that he still had it, but would that same unc have been able to bust the kinds of moves they did while singing LIVE? 'Xactly! You can't smoke Black & Milds and live on a steady diet of Pork Rinds and crackhead pussy and expect to be great. (No Bobby Brown)
Check the 2:54-3:04 minute marks if you want to see when I got HYPE. New Edition were doing their J5 THANG.
That specific portion of the dance piece will forever take me back to Spring 1985 when we, the pre-school graduates of John F. Kennedy Child Development Center, busted the SAME dope move for our proud parents. HOLD ON!...**whispers** Or is it: "HOLD TIGHT?" **scratches naps**






I WILL say that whatever industry balls Keri Hilson has blown to get to where she is were WELL worth it. I've never seen such a spirited, exuberant display of mediocrity. But you know what, K-Hils: GET DAT GUAP WHILE YOU CAN. Something in your water ain't YOUNG. You may have pulled the wool over the world's eyes, but I know for a fact you've seen the better side of 47. I ain't blind; don't need no glasses tah see.
And shouts to her Best New Artist award acceptance speech. I like how she FORGOT she was at the BET Awards.
Bitch, you ain't graduating from DeVry. Save that shit for when you cop that "Sexiest Senior Citizen" joint. That is IF you can find a way to AWF OG Star Trek alumnus, Nichelle Nichols, first.





Ay Mi DIOS! at Tiny & Toya

Yeah, they've got a show debuting tonight on BET about the trials and trevails of being a well-taken care of Baby Muvthuh, but...other than that they reminded me of the faaassss azz 6th grade girls who had older sisters. The ones who had NO problem coming to school in the finest of Wet & Wild and Jordana facepaints and ig'nit azz weaves the beauty supply had to offer.
As a fat girl, I particularly enjoyed Tiny's ode to French Fries everywhere with her 'do. And I also was a fan of Toya's...Zzzzzzzz!






I won't mention Beyonce's Charmin Charade aka the final arts and crafts project she wore brought to us by the students of The Creole Center for Things That Make You Say, "TINA: NOOOO!" Beyonce and her Creole Crew live by but one motto:

"If you stay ready, you ain't GOTZ tah git TACKY."
Learn about it!



I LOVE Thicky THICKY's Mary Mary's "God In Me" joint.
That ish makes me pop it for Pastor at ALL times. Shout to the lovely ladies of the Lord for providing the world with another song that makes us drop it like it's hot for Akon and Young Jeezus.

SPECIAL CHURCH ANNOUNCEMENT SHOUTS TO Erica's liquid leggings.
LAWD! **dukes the Devil while MLK fanning myself** I can always appreciate a woman who don't mind getting sexy for her savior.

*********

And now...for the Rainbow portion of this post:



I ain't gon' get on my boy, Tevin Campbell, as I was trill glad to see him after all these years. But I WILL say if you look in to his eyes, you KNOW that he done seen some peens things.
Johnny Gill was making Eddie proud showed up and showed out for the evening's tribute to legendary soul group, The O'Jays. Johnny seemed especially happy to be doing something other than diddling Dr. Doolittle there. He was gripping that mic so tight that I'm sure when he returned it, it REEKED of his toothpaste, Eau De Murphy.

(Sidenote: Shouts to the decade of time I lost whilst listening to Don Cornelius. If life had a fast forward button, it would have been employed at THAT very moment. He was STROKIN'. {That's what he be doin'! Shouts to Clarence Carter!})




The moment that brought this thug to tears undoubtedly goes to:


I ain't no punk nigress, but seeing Janet Jackson choked up took my eyes on a swim down the Nile River, mayne. I can't even imagine losing my brother, then having to go on stage to make a statement for FamilySavvyFatty.
I applaud Janet's strength in such a difficult time. I send mad LOVE to the entire Jackson clan, especially Mrs. Katherine Jackson, as a mother should NEVER have to bury her child.
And...Tito: You're UP NEXT!

*********

Overall, the night was cool to me.


Ne-Yo's domepiece vocals were SO on point and appropriate. I'm glad he was there to pay tribute to The King, his obvious influence.



Oh...and shouts to the noticeably absent Chris Brown. You know shit's bad when BET won't even let you come to their project yard of an awards show. You really fucked up, kid!

**points and DIES laughing**

Emo Supremo

...Cuz sometimes the fun and games must CEASE.

And I must unleash the baneful beast brewing inside of me.

I'm killing me softly with the mundane of mediocrity
Both me and the train're headed for the tracks
And ain't nobody stopping me



*********

I handed her the keys to discourage my dreams.
Now I'm layin' on the tracks since I can't get 'em back.

*********

I need some emo chemo

...or to steamroll a MEAN ho

…or to blaze me a blizzy packin’ more purple than Dino

I'm On A Romantic Blog

Happy Emm'effin' Friday, Folks!
Thank God we made it...especially since every Monday morning I'm not so sure I can complete those 40 hours SANS bodying a fool or scaling my desk, cardigan tied around my head like a soulja rag screaming: "YOU CAN TELL I'M A SOULJA! I THOUGHT I TOLDJA?!"
When the weekend rolls around and I've made it through without spraying muhfuckas by the copy machine: I KNOOWWZZZ der' iz a gawd.

Anywhoo...Today's musical memory is brought to you by the makers of fine kanekalon and daisy dukes housing denim camel toes.

Raise your dookie braids if you remember the Dancehall Queen of Kanekalon herself, Patra? The first time I laid eyes on the gyal, getting it in her "Queen of the Pack" video, I quickly wrote her off as a reggae B. Angie B.
Then I beheld her impressive and superior "wine" skills and I was captivated.
I EVEN hopped up off my cooouccchhhh and turned my wiiinnnee on! Took a look at myself, said "You SUCK!" Yeeeaaahhh, I looked foooooliiiisshhh! AAOOOHHHHH!!!

I was instantly a fan. My hands down favorite joint from the Jamaican jooker is most definitely "Romantic Call" featuring the OG West Coast rapstress, Yo-Yo.

When the video first comes on and you see Patra sassily disrobe while menacingly mean-mugging the camera with a threatening: "My Propuhtee Iz My PROPUHTEE!" you knew you were in for some hellafied SUMTHIN'. And that "SUMTHIN':" 18 centimeters of baby hair Bad Bitches unapologetically shit-talkin' in a lowrider with **GASP; then RE-GASPS** muthafuckin' 2Pac!
"Hello, Mommy. Can I speak to Bobby?/I'm across the ocean and I'm feeling very lonely..."
Uhhm, Patch: Were you just telling Bobby's mama that you were in desperate need of a phone bone session?

Wow! This video brings back SO many memories. The part where me and my jr. high school friend, Angela and a whole cast and crew of Southeast ruffians hanging in Creekwood Apartments would REALLY get our teenage Soul Train line going was Yo-Yo's, "Take yo hands and wrap 'em 'round my waist/I know you cain't wait/UHH!/To love me like you wanna/I can't staaannnnd a man who's not a man/Too proud around his fraaannnnddsss/So Here We Go Again!"

Yo! You couldn't STOP my striped Guess? shorts from shaking it like dice at that moment. Shout out to parents leaving their homes open to fast azz teens and the neighborhood kids who knew it!
Up until that point I'd never drank so much soda and ate so many chips and processed foods in my LIFE. And, surprisingly, save for the occasional freak-off to Hammer's hip shaker, "Pumps In A Bump", we were respectful and trustworthy kids.

Shouts to Patra, y'all. I wonder where she's hanging her denim daisies these days...and if her braids have been deservingly and ceremoniously displayed in the Jamaican equivalent of the Smithsonian for forthcoming generations of Caribbean coochie cutters to enjoy.

And...while we're on the topic of the decadent dancery that is Dancehall music, shouts to whoever made THIS video. I'm over here pissing my Caciques at the misheard lyrics of Sean Paul's "Temperature." Watch this shit and pay attention to the lyrics and images flashing across the screen. I suggest you keep your toilet and its paper handy. (You're welcome.)

I'll Suck Yo KNIT

If you're reading this post, it's cuz Her Royal Headwrapstress has yet to respond to my request for tickets to her show in San Diego tonight. **pours out a LOT of disappointment**

So, to show her that I'm a TRILL live fan, NOT just a broke beezy trying to get hook-ups and shizz, I've instituted the World Famous SavvyFattyFreakMixxx3000 in honor of 1 of my fave songs of hers, "Other Side Of The Game."
(For those not versed in the Bible of Badu, I've freaked the funk of the lyrics featured in the 0:48-1:47 minute marks)

"Do I realllaayyy...want some ticketssss?
Badu, tell meeeee/What to doooo-ooo-oooo
I know you got to get yo hustle onnnnn...
You got 3 kiiiiiiddddsss
I understand you got...mad bills
But I love your sooonnngggs (Mmmm...)

What I'm gonna do when the concert's through?
I'm gonna curse my bank account and then cry real tears
Yes, I wiiillll...."

**drops mic; does the Tah-DAAAHH!**

Anything? Bueller?...BADUELLER?!!

Oh, and shouts to my ultimate fantasy man, Andre 3000 aka Benjamin Andre and his loc'd out 90s look making a cameo in his baby mama's vid. He never was really convincing in his role as a D-boy. So, instead, I imagine him as a New Age Trapper; slainging juices and berries by the kilo along with fat sacks of fine, original poetry verses and tweed knickers by the boat load. AY! OK!

Badu You Got Some Tickets?

Ok, so this is no musical memory, but it IS dedicated to 1 of THE baddest bitches in ANY musical genre. So today we'll discuss the topic that is GETTING ME SOME TICKETS TO ERYKAH BADU'S CONCERT TONIGHT.

"Why not just get your own," You ask, obviously unfamiliar with the bullshittery that is my bank account.
Cuz I'm broke. And I ain't slung enough System Security skills in order to afford the $85 wurf of ticket. **lifts butterknife to jugular** There! You HAPPY?!
Real talk: If anybody has some respectable hotastics I could pull to get that guap by TONIGHT: HOLLA AT A FAT MACK.



So file this post under "Ho Shit I'll Do For Some Erykah Badu Tickets."

1) Knit her a Dallas Mavericks throwback jersey so she can be true to her Urf Mama style while representing for her hometeam.

2) Smoke a FAT blizzy with her backstage before the concert and have her lace my tennis shoes about the kinds of Sweet Nothings she whispered into Common's ear to turn him from B-Boy to dressing like your great-grandma's couch. He's come back around NOW, but STILL...













3) Babysit her kids. I'll get a school bus and 'round 'em all up and take 'em off her hands for a few days. We'll embark upon a fantastic blessed ethereal ride and shit. I'll even tuck 'em in, but NOT before having their daddies spit hot lullaby 16s into their ears before they drift off to Dreamland. (No BET)





In the meantime, in between time enjoy this lil' ditty by Sista Knit Pants herself. I got a love of MY life, too, @fatbellybella. But Rick James wrote a song about H.E.R. so I don't have to...


Baby, Baby, Baby, Baby Batter

Irv Gotti’s head looks like his neck baked a cake, yo.

Lift up the back of his shirt and there'd be a cassette player under a furry flap and shit.

**brings composure back to the bottom of the map**

My bad, fam. Don’t mind me and my shit talk about my fellow chubster...ESPECIALLY if you've seen me lately. For those that have, you're already in the knizzow about how my neck is losing inches by the Chipotle.

But…Have I told you that I can’t fucking stand him…latelay?

As I sit here and catch “Gotti’s Way” via DVR, my blood goes from Top Ramen to NUCLEAR as I listen to this dumb fuck talk his daughter, Angie, out of pursuing a college education since his ass didn’t and was blessed enough to make millions.

But: What part of the LAME is THAT?

ANY retard with a v-card knows that KNOWLEDGE is power. Yeah, money is gravy like mashed potaters, but who's to say lightning would strike Angie's path the way it did when Murder, Inc. reigned supreme? (Pun Intended)

And EVERY Irv Gotti should know that money ain’t THAT easy to come by ANYmore.(“Body,” anyone?)

For those of you smacking ya lips: Don't think I'm hating on Baked Biscuits Head. I do respect Gotti as a businessman, envy his go-getter spirit and, well: Who can forget how he introduced the world to a talented, young songstress by the name of NOFUCKINGBODY?

But as a husband and a father, I want to take him by his Play-Doh titties and chuck his Pillsbury Doughyness to a place where no one EVER checks for a Murder Inc. project AGAIN.

A little place I like to call: EVERYWHERE.

Deb, his hoping-against-hope azz wife, is better than ME, yo.

Ain't NO way in a world where ninjas like Idris Elba and Mickael Pietrus (<--gotcha!) sexily saunter would I allow this Hip Hop Teddy Ruxpin to openly and CONTINUOUSLY disrespect me or give my child bad advice for ONE moment.

Ok, well, maybe ONE moment; at least long enough for us to clock them reality show checks and enough evidence to show the lawyers and judge just what type of cheating azz chubby fucker this yellow ninja really is. But after that lil’ game is played, I’m in the WIIINNND with my JoJo Simmons’esque daughter and impressionable sons to enjoy MY life spending HIS coinage. Cha-Chaing!

But I digress. And please forgive me for going in on this human hush puppy (and no, NOT the shoes, playboys and girls) because he ain't the reason for the season.

I TRILLY came through to take you down Memory Lane with me for a second.

So close your eyes for a moment (figuratively and shit, since you gotta read this, remember? But shouts! to those who DID. Eeenyusjays.) while I take you on this spunky expedition...

Picture a club, circa 2002; packed wall-to-wall with sweaty weaves and hungry onlooking azz ninjas dying to run their fingers through ‘em.

Envision ya girl rightchea getting my proper party ON as the DJ spins one of my FAVORITE songs, B.I.G.'s “One More Chance.” All of a sudden I feel someone behind me. I turn around to see a spaghetti noodle of a man toothily grinning. And if my memory serves me correctly, he had on an Avirex button-up. Or a drugstore rayon. Shit-I can’t call it. But for argument's sake picture some shit that would have sweat and must at its front door like, “Come.Out.And.PLAAA-AAYYY!”

So we groove a lil’ bit and he asks me if I want a drink. “HAIL YEAH!” my mind blurted since that type-shit is RARE in these Daygo streets. You’ll get caught butt nekkid with a blunt between your ass cheeks in your cubicle faster than you’ll get a male-sponsored drink ‘round these parts.

Arm-in-arm we head to the bar and he tells me to get what I want. Back then, I was GHETTO and had NO type of ladylike decorum...case in point: “Double shot of Henny,” I eagerly tell the bartender before dude changes his mind and saves his dough for the taco shop run immediately after. Directly after the order crossed my lips, I see his eyes widen and bottom lip drop like groupie drawls.

“Awww, shit. You’z a G!” he exclaims, dumbfounded that I’m drinking like the big boys do. I just bat my eyelashes and smile sweetly with that “Jeah, that’s how I roll. AND WHAT?!” look on my face.

Before the bartender hands us our drinks, the DJ drops THIS shit right here, n-word:

Let me let you know: You ain’t never SEEN a big bitch groove like I grooved at that moment. Hand in the a-yer. Draink to my lip. Ass a’sway. All around loving LIFE cuz like Lost Boyz said: MUSIC MAKES ME HIGH.

Spaghetti Rayon promptly took his place on my no-booty and got to grinding like bad brakes. We were still by the bar waiting for our liquid libido. Soon as the bartender pushed ‘em our way, we grab ‘em and continue our party of 2; STILL grooving and shit. I throw mine back like a floor-length weave (cuz my mama taught me that) while never missing a chance to rub up against “him downstairs.”

Just as I heard, “Baby, I don’t know why you wanna do me wrong (Do Me Wrooonnng)” I feel a violent azz shudder behind me. I turn around to make sure Rayon Ricky ain't had a seizure from the amount of azz-negative I'm throwing his way. At that moment I see Avirex Slim with the “OH!” face. Yes, ladies and pimpin' men: That “OH!” face. The one I hand out like prescriptions and subscriptions when I’m on a mission.

I stared a mudhole THROUGH his face and for some reason, his eyes wouldn’t meet mine. He clutched his drink for dear life and BRISKLY limped away without any utterance.

I took a moment to process. I mean, I HAD just imbibed that Henn-Doggy Dogg. My mind most CERTAINLY could have been playing tricks on me.

I thought that maybe his girl had just walked in with the Domestic Violence face on.

But, then something told me to just do a “check” on my jeans. Maybe he'd spilled his drink on me and was afraid of my reaction.

I swung my hand around to my nil-booty to find a newborn batch of baby batter.

SWEA’ FO’ GAWD.

Cuz I'm BLACK, Y'all!

Happy Black Music Month!
For those living under a cock for the past few, each June we celebrate the unique musical talent, creativity, and achievements of Black artists.

And, iffin' I get the time away from not doing a dayum thing but working and blowing trees like a cool summer breeze, I shall commemorate the month by posting my musical memories because music is such a big part of who I am.
For anybody who's ever stepped foot in @ChateauSAV you know I always got something pumpin'.

As an only child for a long while, music was one of my first friends.

As a hard-as-nails azz adult who wouldn't show my feelings for SHIT: Music's been my confidant.

When I'm on one doing some shit I probably shouldn't be, music is my accomplice.

And since I'd cease to exist without it running through my veins:
Music's
my
DRUG.

*********

Some of my earliest memories have to do with music.
Will you ever forget where you were when you first heard, "We Are The World?"
I won't; bangs blowing in the wind as I sat shotgun in MamaSAV's hatchback Tercel listening to the varying voices singing for one common cause.

How when Cyndi Lauper's part dropped, I got HYPED to the 10th power to save Ethiopian lives like my lil' 5 year old azz could do it alone.

"Well. WELL. WELL. WEELLLLLL..."
Or whatever she's saingin' that had me looking for change and chips and M&Ms in my mama's couch to send to USA for Africa.

Oh! And don't tell me I went to the ONLY school in America where we performed not 1; not 2, but 3 LIVE ON STAGE! performances of this classic for the entire faculty and student body of Kennedy Elementary to behold.
Man! If we didn't take that shit type-SERIOUSLY!
We had practice for WEEKS prior to our performances and by the time showtime rolled around, we were READAY. We rocked that shit like newborn babies, yo. I'm TELLING YOU!

YO! I'd be lying to say I wasn't looking for a 2nd grader to run up, all jumpy-jumpy, asking for my autograph and shit. I swayed back and forth, earnestly, in the name of ending world hunger, mayne. Those hand claps through Ray Charles's ad-libs were NOT for NAUGHT. SOMEBODY needed my scribble-scrabble on their lunch box, yo.

*******

But yeah, that's how it's going down this June, SavvyFAT'liens.
Hope to see you back here looking into my life to sing what I siiinnnngg. La-da-da-da-daaaaaaaaa...