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.