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 3000aka 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!
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. (NoBET)
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...
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.
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 ona 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.
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 3LIVE 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...
However, this is no social visit, so no grinning and displayage of tooth
Barack is in office and I thought we'd left this shit back in the Admin of You-Know-Who
But OHHHH NO! We still got bidniss to 'tend to when it comes to the Ghett-Olympics that is Prom for our youth
SHOUTS to my IG Email Posse brought to me by the Triscuit Tress Trio that is NaturallyAlise, LuvvieLG, and ThePBG. Christina: I blameth YOU for bringing this into my world. But Zaynab: You took it over the IZZEDGE with your project poem, homay and for that: iCurse Thee.
To babygirl in the collared-up circus tent, Hot Paink with the Yellow You effin' Pepto Klepto: Taketh back that toe to that camel!
To ol' gal in the Color By Numbers corset with the cotton candy tutu Wasn't you slaingin' Newports at the Legion last week? Ain't you really 42?
Dear Chesty Betsy: Your jugs be'eth too behemoth for that strapless gown And PS: Do your titties have an elevator? If not, then why they look so down?
Oh, my Young Jeezus!: Who gave the OK for the family portrait at the prom? Please convict them, O'Savior, for felonious, ghettotanous and foolhardy use of Vee-ton.
Now, this orange frock with the feathers, homegirl don't look that bad But correct me if I'm wrong, but: Didn't she go to prom with your dad?
Now, for this "dude" in the orange: You're no J-Lo in that dress You've got FAR too much fabric and, clearly, not ENOUGH neck.
To ol' boy in the sofa: Naw, playboy, yo' shit AIN'T HARDLY on point What you CAN do is get back to them dishes 'need 'tendin' down at Harpo's Juke Joint.
To homechick in the Spongebob, iREFUSE to live with your theatrics! How disrespectful to rob ya lil sis of the sheet RIGHT off her mattress! Have you any shame about pulling this frightful fashion caper? When you know DAMN WELL you just wasted good birthday gift wrapping paper!
To the golden girl going to Carnival in this costumey 2-piece Why has your weave disagreed, divorced, and parted like Moses did the sea?
To Piggy Smalls in the maroon: Alright, Big Ma: DO YO THANG! But you ain't gon' be able to sit down in that dress, so I hope your limo is a train.
To the rest of you fools who I spared and did not address Congratulations on the setting back of hundreds of years of Black Progress With your illicit displays of sheer niggatry and your stellar ho shit 'fits I asketh the Lord to curseth your wombs and loins so you can't pass on this shit!
However...For those who've already entered parenthood: PLEASE allow your kids to be kids Or in 15 years or so I'll see they fonky asses on WSHH acting dumb-niggerish in 'dem vids
