Category Archives: I hate so you don’t have to

Now usually I don’t do this but uhhhh

1. People, remove your underpants and gather round ’cause KELLS IS WRITING A MEMOIR.

Robert’s bout to take his key and stick it in the ignition of the literary world! The book is reportedly to be published by SmileyBooks, Tavis Smiley’s unfortunately- and boringly-named publishing company. Snippets from the advance copy below.

Page 1, “God. Mom. Michael Jackson. In that order.

Page 36, “still Fuck Brooklyn; Go Chi!

Page 52, “1) The show. 2) The after party. 3) The hotel lobby. 4) Fuckin.”

Interspersed throughout, bodily fluids like what, bad metaphors for lovemaking, and denials of latent homosexual tendencies.

I believe that this book is premature, as there is so much more love to be made. So, so much more! No matter; I’m celebrating its impending arrival. It’s a good thing R. Kelly’s sex life is completely my business since I never ever tire of hearing about R. Kelly’s sex life which obviously makes R. Kelly the Tiger Woods of postmodern R&B.

Pretty close to what we dream of as the perfect pop song, circa ’03. The only offensive things about its video are: a) Nick Cannon as the DJ, and b) the large amounts of Celtics jersey for someone who CLAIMS to be a Bulls fan. Dear boys of the world, I will never understand how colorways and style can trump allegiance to one’s local sports squad. You’re too worried about your outfit and not worried enough about division standings. Also, you could stand to care a tiny bit more about me and the things I need and how I like to be held.

2. The exotic and colorful beast known as “Virginia hiphop” was brought into your living room this week by a nerd on World News Tonight.

via Hypebeast.

The offensive thing about this is that it’s done by one Ian Cohen whose whole style, carriage, attempt to out-nerd me, and inefficiency with the English language completely fucking annoy me instead of it being done by a lanky-limbed, socially awkward, and appropriately-shaped female type with good manners and a master’s degree. Media, you’re sexist. Internet, you too. Get this, I have breasts, and guess what, they don’t get in the way of me being able to articulate my feelings about the brothers Thornton in front of a camera in a studio. Girls can do it too. Call me for a gig like this next time. And stop staring at my rack.

Now I sit back and wait for the inevitable email from Ian, since I just know he’s the type to Google himself.

3. Let’s all watch Howard Zinn’s The People Speak on the History Channel, k?

The offensive thing here is that there’s a Matt Damon appearance; however, there’s also a shot of the Brooklyn scene used for one of the Things Fall Apart covers*. Howard, you’ve out-hip-hop-ed me again! AGAIN.

* I bought the one with the little kid’s face, but only because they were out of the one with the hand holding the ace of spades. It was a real pain in the ass to find.

Dear Howard, I hope this finds you well. I’ve had it bad for you for years now. If things don’t work out between me and Larry David, Rick Rubin, Paul Barman, Nick Kroll, or Rahm Emanuel, please allow me to be your shiksa plaything. I hear Ambien sex is crazy; let’s see what all the fuss is about, shall we?


Life Lessons, 10/04/09

1. Old boring people will always hate the rap music and will always try to kill it. And not kill it in a good way, like Meth kills it on ‘The What’.” I mean, kill it, like prevent it from existing. The latest round involves Plies and some Florida politicians but, really, the names and dates are interchangeable here. 1992, is that you?

The hip hop will be banned in, uh, Fort Myers, thanks to crybaby city officials who are dismayed that somebody got stabbed at a recent Plies concert and think Plies’ music has anything at all to do with the fact that somebody got stabbed. For the record, city leaders also do not care for the sexual themes in Chuck Berry’s music and they know for a fact that Judas Priest makes the kids go on murder sprees.

It’s sad, you know? I feel sorry for grouchy old people who need hobbies ’cause they are bored. But try to stop the rap music and you might as well try to stop the sun, gravity, or human fornication. In conclusion: fall back, grandpa. We’re not gonna take it/No. We ain’t gonna take it.

2. a) In an amusing anecdote about a drug deal, it’s the details that sell your story. b) The ladies are constantly wavering between Tim Roth and Michael Madsen in terms of “strangely foxy older dude who makes everything better in cinema” award.

(The ladies = mostly just me)


I’m trying to watch The Lost Boys.

3. In a related Lesson, be careful in life ’cause the long-haired hot girl in a flowy skirt might be a vampire.

Laugh out loud re: this crew purportedly being edgy/frightening.
1987 was a simpler time, yall.

Gerard McMann – “Cry Little Sister”


those Lost Boyz, silly.

4. Nobody likes a musical genre overlap masturbatory studio session just for the sake of. Specifically, 2003’s low-budget version of Donovan and the almighty Gary Grice working together is just wrong in multiple ways. I mean, really. Shit’s played.

Paste says Devendra Banhart and GZA are going to collaborate. And of course everybody’s using words like “enigmatic” to describe this pairing. “It’s bizarre and surprising, yet makes perfect sense!” they say. Devendra annoys me* and I am a hater, so I call this pairing “stupid and please stop it. Also, IT’S GZA. The term surprising is never applicable. He has a spaceship, is the subject of Ken Burns’ next documentary, and raises champion Bassett Hounds. (I’m pretty sure.) He could burst through the door at the Roman Polanski trial, interrupt the proceedings and kick a hot new verse and it would not surprise me and should surprise none of you. Because he’s GZA.

*The alpha and omega of grizzled sensitive white man Topanga Canyon rock is a little thing I call After the Gold Rush. Everything else is just resin.

This all started when GZA heard Baby,Banhart’s first single off of his upcoming album, and freestyled over it. I’m guessing this wrecked shop (even though they leave that part out of the article) because, again, he’s GZA. Then he and Devendra had a bro rendezvous at Coachella. Devendra has to brag about it, but I probably would too: I played Coachella, and, lo and behold, I looked on the sidelines and there was GZA. I was stunned,” Banhart says. So we hung out and talked—we talked about atomic energy and how the sun is powered. We talked about dark matter. Not surprising. He’s GZA.

Devendra talks about his admiration for Gizzy through this boring story about being a young punk and falling under the spell of Liquid Swords, skating and making Wu stickers to put on his board. (Unless your name’s Sean Sheffey, YAWN.) He’s a legend. He’s untouchable. He’s an avatar, an iconoclast. It’s the GZA, gushes Devendra, whose old art-school friends probably coached him to say that. And you can’t fuck with the GZA. Well, yes, but only when backed by the sound of some dragons breathing, ninjas jumping out of trees, pots and pans clanging. I don’t need to hear him over a floaty & gentle acoustic guitar. And I don’t care for music collabs just for the sake of. And get a haircut and a real job, Dev.

That said, I like Baby! People, I’m nothing without my contradictions.



Cuomo & Carter. Cooke. Algebra.

1. Little Dwayne is taking a break from his stretch of making tiny, adorable humans to record a piece of brat-rock with Weezer. This is either just god-awful and terrible, a bad thing that should never come to pass, or it’s my new favorite song of oh-nine that I make fun of publicly but turn up in the car when it comes on the radio. Also, Rivers is kind of a jerk who thinks that rappers stay strapped and constantly drunk.

Rivers and JD in what appears to be a frigid recording studio.

Weezer is always trying something new…So I reached out to some friends of mine in different genres: Jermaine Dupri, for example, king of R&B, I wrote a song with him called ‘Can’t Stop Partying.’ It was a real challenge for me, taking his ideas, which are very slick, R&B party [ideas], and giving it some kind of edge…

“Not only that, but we got Lil Wayne to come in and do a rap on it. Any other rapper would’ve just gone, Yay, we’re partying! Let’s drink and have fun, but he gave it the edge I was looking for. You can hear in his voice, it sounds so dark, like he was gonna get shot or something when he walks out of the studio.

Things Rivers Cuomo says/does that make me hate him with surprising intensity:

1. “Rappers are mostly alcohol dependent and live in fear of the gun.” Evidently that Lit 101 seminar at Harvard about deconstructing our frames of reference that underpin notions of identity and culture didn’t take.
2. “Jermaine Dupri = king of R&B.”
3. Has a song called “Can’t Stop Partying” yet is not Lionel Richie in 1984.
4. Named album Raditude. I need a personal apology for this – preferably a nice hand-written note.
5. Is still around and it’s not ’05. (what I mean is that today it’s not ’05. Check back tomorrow in apt. 302, though – Come On Feel the Illinoise came out last Tuesday and I’m having a listening party!)

2. Sam Cooke biopic in the works. Whatthehelltooksolong but I’m not interested, thank you, as I have many other things to do with my time; the news does give me a reason to post this*, though, because a) I’m a girl and I am required by law to swoon at the opening notes of the song, and b) I was supposed to be alive, and about 17 years old, in 1964. Also, although I’m definitely not interested in seeing it (lots of things to do with my time; I just told you), might I suggest Chiwetel Ejiofor for this role? Everyone knows Nigerians go hard, so hard.

I got the soul of a young Sam Cooke when I spit
It make you wanna make a new dance up. Tariq

Sam Cooke was unusual and epic in the fact that he owned the rights to his music via various recording and publishing entities he controlled.
(That fact doesn’t really fit anywhere else in the post but it’s so amazing that I had to fit it in.)

*“You Send Me.” Honest you do.


3. Hey, how’d you manage to unearth the notebook of the dude sitting next to me in 8th-grade Algebra? You’re a super sleuth!

I did a lot of daydreaming in this class (damn you, Ben P in the aisle next to me and 3 seats up), believed that the topic was stupid and said so often, and had to take it again in summer school due to an unsatisfactory performance. You don’t really see the point of Algebra until later, much later.

The Wu, on the other hand, makes sense from that very first moment.


Media trend that I do not understand or care for #5,360: Pale-skinned ladies looking uncomfortable and this allegedly being sexy

From the land of the Straight Male Gaze (i.e., print media…oh hell, the entire world) comes all these recent photo shoots arguing that THIS IS THE SEX:

I like a pretty pretty lady just like every other stripper/librarian in this town, but the ones depicted above don’t make me clamor to give them an invitation to the pants party. Somebody please explain; I’m like a (tiny, adorable) doe lost in the woods.

Handsome Furs – “I’m Confused”


GQ/Details/Esquire, I believe that Allure mag has sonned you in terms of sexy-girl photographic imagery – and Allure is a mag for ladies. It shouldn’t be this way, but sometimes it takes a competitor in the world of periodicals to come along and make you rethink your photo shoot direction. I mean, I think we all remember where we were, what time it was, and what we were wearing when we first experienced


(Sorry for fucking up your whole program. I should’ve warned you not to click unless you want to make sure you are completely distracted the rest of the day. I still haven’t recovered)

PS – UHHMM. Buddy buddy buddy all in my face? Additional photo-shoot confusion.

My former Internet paramour Malin. This leaves me feeling awkward, and that’s hard to do, and it leaves me feeling dirty, and not in a good way, and this is bad, so bad, and NOT bad meaning good like it’s ’85. It could be because the dainty undergarments are black; I just don’t know. I want to run away from this, as I am feeling besmirched.


Can I live??

Evidently NOT, according to THIS, which continues to prance all over my computer screen whenever I visit rap-music-related sites. I thought the Internet had agreed that he no longer exists – ? My brain and soul and feelings hurt. Just look at this, the way God is testing me.

Rap Andy Bernard back at it again.
(Terrible, tiresome wackness doesn’t take a holiday. Always be on the offensive, you guys)

Like what’s the reason for hating somebody like me? I’m pretty non-threatening, I’m just kinda doing my thing. I think Jay-Z said it best – ‘either love me or leave me alone,’ – I think that’s the realest shit.

If it pleases the court, I would like to address the defendant directly.

a) Except that, Ash, you are pretty very much excessively threatening to everything I hold precious in terms of music and life (ok, maybe not), plus I don’t like your face and I already requested you stop it with the ugly BIRD JERSEY

and b) Except that Jay-Z also said “Twinkletoes, you’re breakin my heart,” “You’re twitchin, don’t do that, you makin me nervous,” and other things of that nature. Plus he called you a little f-word and said he’s got money stacks bigger than you in that part where everybody thought it was about Prodigy. And guess what, I happen to think that’s the realest shit. So I win, yayyy.

OH and then
Cube was all, Willie D told me to let a hoe be a hoe.
Rawss says you need to come over and kiss his pinky raaang.
Serch, Pete, Zev and Paul say you gets the gas face.

Nas says Eminem murdered you on your own shit.

Tupac says you’re living bummy. You
and your crew.
Lynyrd Skynyrd says Southern man don’t need you around, anyhow.

Lindsey Buckingham says you can go your own way (go your own waaaay),

and other assorted stops along the way through the Logan’s Record Collection Diss Songs Tour Oh-Nine, whuuut. Oh, plus Rae wants to give you an eye jammy.

I needed a song to post here that pleads with some clown to stop it, just stop it already; why hello there, Billy and Fame!

M.O.P., still screamin on em. STILL, after all these years. I like it.

“Stop Pushing.”


Nothing further, your honor.


No tricks, no tricks, baby

One day some of the kids from the neighborhood carried my mother’s groceries all the way home.
You know why? It was outta respect.

Some things are not OK. I have gathered some examples to illustrate my point:

The fact I am not Raquel Welch in 1968 even though clearly I’m supposed to be, the whole Ash Roth debacle, the fact that the country I live in (the US, which has a lot of money) cannot seem to provide a public option for health insurance without people wanting to burn things and kill themselves, and the possibility of 50 Cent and Ghostface collaborating on a song. This news makes me feel uncomfortable and paranoid and a little like there are helicopters above, like when Henry Hill goes into a coke-y tailspin at the end of Goodfellas.

The only time Staten Isle and Queens should come together is in a little situation I like to call “Verbal Intercourse.” And even then, they had to get my permission first. Plus everybody knows conflict between MCs is kinda fun. It’s a part of history. It’s manhood-proving, especially if the alternative is rappers in Nylon mag verbally fellating each other (“You rule, Kid Cudi!” “No, you rule, Chuck Hamilton!”), and everything this carbon-based life form known as “Drake” says and does. (I mean, he’s just so girly to me. I do not care for a girly MC. Unless she’s a girl.) Uncle KRS would not approve, gentlemen. I don’t want anybody getting shot, but still. A nice verbal throwdown gets a lady English major excited in a special way. Like a microphone-battle version of that one time LeGarrette Blount’s fist helped Byron Hout’s mouth refrain from saying stupid things in the future. Like that.

Beef is especially useful because it prevents awful collaborations. YAY BEEF. When it’s over, it often results in situations like this Ghost-50 thing – dudes inviting former adversaries to join them on some sort of musical situation that makes no sense, no goddamn sense at all. I make a pouty face and I wish Pauly Cicero were here to make phone calls or hand gestures to one of his foot soldiers in order to stop the progression of events. What I mean is, please Ghost, pretty please, don’t do it. Don’t do it, baby. Let Marvin guide you. My biggest mistake was lovin you too much/And lettin you know! ‘Cause now you’ve got me where you want me/And you’re gonna let me go!

Marvin Gaye – “Baby Don’t You Do It”



Everything means less than zero.

GQ mag ranked America’s 25 douchiest colleges since I guess they felt like this needed to be done? The whole list is pretty predictable–Ohio State, Arizona State, Texas, Notre Dame, USC (I love ‘SC but, yeah, I see it)–and filled with the expected references to rich kids in blazers chugging substances. I do like the Paul Wolfowitz mention, though (U of Chicago; hey! Just like noted THIS GUY, Firas!) and the mention of NYU teeming with “Yeah, I did that when I was 17”-ers (’cause that one’s true). That part about OSU dudes writing letters to Maurice Clarett is rather comical, too. Brown is ranked #1 because according to GQ, the height of d-baggery for college kids is putting together fundraisers and using fancy terms like cultural hegemony; the writer of the piece even pulls out that old “limousine liberals” dis like it’s ’96! Clever! At least the writer is an equal-op critic, though: Charter College in Wasilla gets a place on the list (“‘FREE LEVI’ sticker on the bumper of a Dodge Ram dually,” that’s kinda great), and those Jesus-y types down at Bob Jones U get appropriately clowned. I enthusiastically endorse this.
I can’t seem to find a byline for this piece, however. Bring ’em out bring ’em out, GQ! You ashamed of your writing staff?

And then there’s Morehouse, the winner of the coveted “We Need a Black School” slot on the list. I just hadn’t done enough cringing yet this morning; I’d be lost without you, Gentlemen’s Quarterly! Let’s do this.

First of all, don’t nobody disparage the alma mater of Tre Styles and get away with it. I am not the one.

Additionally, the description makes my racism feelers get a little tingly. That whole blurb just makes me feel antsy and uncomfortable, even if I can’t articulate it. But I’ll try:

Look how psyched this guy (anonymous GQ writer) is on his description. “Fonzworth Bentley douche.” That’s not funny ’cause it’s not 2003. The inclusion of the term “black socialite.” (Black socialite, the writer says, in case you missed it). And OH those wacky Black collegians with their hip hop shows and the way they get all militant, despite the fact that they’re well on their way to law school! The anonymous writer’s point that Morehouse is filled with overachievers. Except wait, being an overachiever alone is not d-bag-ish, so why is the school on the list? Because it’s a Black school, filled with Black overachievers! And that’s…um…douchey (?). It is, anonymous GQ writer says, if you are a Black overachiever who has the nerve to claim that there’s a white power structure in place while living it up in your fancy sweaters, presiding over your fraternity. No white power structure would allow men of color to get Bachelor’s degrees and host music showcases, see? So douchey and unnecessarily complain-ey, those Morehouse dudes! Anonymous GQ writer(s), Schoolly D is on line 1 for you.

Since I excel in etymology, Def Jam in the ’80s, El-P, hips, ’90s everything, bearded white man music, and little else, I had best stop my rant now. I’m not too eloquent when it comes to discussing cultural identity and notions of power and privilege in America. The GQ piece and all similar content is better left to my dude Cornel West. Or Harry Allen. Or bell hooks. But since everybody knows I love a weird segue in a blog post: it’s Declan McManus’s birthday (08/25/54),

he has ruled my life with his songwriting and melody-writing abilities, and here he is, singing about racism in a subversive and thought-provoking way. OH ELVIS.


Photo software hooligan annoys, confuses, upsets 5’7″ lady blogger.

You don’t know this guy, but you kiiiinda know this guy. You know his work. And if I have done my job appropriately as a leftist girlnerd broadcasting from apt. 302, soon you’ll join me in harboring hot, coursing THIS GUY frustration due to his actions as described below. This guy’s a 20 year old University of Illinois student named Firas Alkhateeb. One fateful night not so long ago, he was doing some PhotoShop-ish tinkering on his computer, “Joker”-ized President Dreamboat’s handsome face on the cover of Time, put it on his Flickr page, and was done with it.

Except, HOLLLLD UP and/or wait a minute.

Then here’s what happened. Somebody else took the picture from the Flickr page (without mentioning this to Alkhateeb), slapped “socialism” underneath it, and put it all over your city and my city to make an unoriginal statement about Obama being our very own Hugo Chavez, only better-looking and in a Hartmarx suit. AAHAHAHA. See, it’s funny, ’cause Obama’s a Socialist! Just like…uh…the Joker as played by Heath Ledger and brought to you by Warner Bros? OHWAIT. See, that doesn’t make one goddamn bit of sense. Also, it’s the opposite of funny and is most definitely not fresh or irreverent in its message. Also, the Joker was not a Socialist. Also, everyone having access to health care in the richest country on Earth is not Socialism. And this isn’t Gotham. So stop it.

(I have entertained the thought that the person behind the posters could be some wiseass dude with a CalArts degree who’s actually pro-Obama and is trying to give us all a big postmodern headache by forcing us to talk about the characterization of political figures as public creations, assigned meaning by members of the culture and then figuratively passed around like action figures. However, the fact is that the work depicts Obama looking simultaneously scary and foolish, and that in itself is a statement about the man despite any ironic interpretations.)

So again, my man Firas Alkhateeb, 20 years old, in college, just playing around with some software, created the “Joker” image innocently enough. The “socialism” addition came later, thanks to some unidentified person – so it’s not Alkhateeb’s editorial about the President you see in these posters. Somebody came in and adjusted his original picture a bit in an effort to express some political leanings. Lovely; I disagree with the message in this case but I support the concept. And what’s also lovely is that Alkhateeb himself supports the concept; your dude does not seem concerned at all with getting paid even though the popularity of the design would almost guarantee it (“It would be nice,” he says, “but it’s not that big of a deal”). Thus, public art as common medium, free-flowing between members of a culture. Lawrence Lessig game proper. I’m in.

HeightFiveSeven cannot support, however, passively dipping your foot into the shallow end of the pool when there’s a fucking game of Marco Polo happening in the pool right in front of you. Also, it’s your pool. And you’re just sitting there, watching.
(there’s a metaphor in there somewhere; lemme tinker with it a little more and get back to you).

I’ll back up. Alkhateeb is critical of President Dreamboat, as he thinks his performance so far has been underwhelming: “We don’t have to ‘hero-worship’ the guy,” he says. Sigh. Heeeere we go. That’s nothing this blogger hasn’t heard right-wing jerkfaces say a hundred times before; what can you do. But Alkhateeb goes on to say that he’s a Kucinich supporter.
(That’s the guy from Ohio who never stood a chance of becoming President because he was too much, um, like a Socialist. My mother the superleftist luuuuuhves Obama but still has not recovered from Kucinich’s defeat.)

So. Obama is too liberal, the poster tells you. Just look at the thing; blind man can see it, like James Brown always said. Even DJ Diabetic himself took a break from protecting his pristine brick from pesky graff writers to describe how succinct and clear the message conveyed in the “socialism” posters is (Obama is too liberal). It’s a message that’s pedestrian and lame and built upon falsehoods about death panels, but goddammit if it’s not a finely-distilled and clear message and that, no matter what the message, is the most important part of having a super tight street art game.

And Firas Alkhateeb is busy being 20, attending classes, going to Stereogum and checking Facebook 4 or 5 times a day, doing everything he should as a collegiate guy. And all the while the image he created is being co-opted to provide some striking, memorable as all hell, and visually persuasive material for the guys on the other team. Therein lies my concern. The situation’s like somebody boosting the image of my body up at the top of this page, adding “GIRLS SHOULDN’T LISTEN TO STEVIE WONDER” on the bottom, making it into a paste-up all over the metropolis, and me not really minding so much that my image is being used for the campaign against girls listening to Stevie Wonder. And then me reiterating my belief that girls don’t listen to enough Stevie Wonder in my interview with the LA Times.
(Please smack me in the mouth if I act like this; thanks in advance)

Firas can certainly be a 20-year-old in college who wants to sit this one out. I get it. We all have self-determination. He didn’t slap “socialism” under the Joker’s chin and didn’t ask to join the discourse; I get that too. I’m an understanding soul. But he’s still THIS GUY and you know it. There’s no fire on his part, no anger, no showing and no proving. You’re allegedly so Kucinich, Firas. Lemme see. Simon says, according to Monch, gettthefuckup.

I can’t say it as well as 1994 can say it, and I damn sure can’t say it as well as representatives from the state of Georgia can say it. So even though this song lyrically pleads for you to stop fuckin around and stop smoking so much goddamn weed and for you to get your head right, in keeping with the theme of this post I have co-opted the art of another party for the purpose of spreading my own message:



And you may find yourself living in a shotgun shack.

Apparently what’s really hood, what’s the newest and freshest, is to publicly acknowledge and whine about yet sorta brag about the fact that you have been felled by the fists of other dudes in your same industry.

“OH the surrealism and horror I feel at what’s become of American manhood,” said the lady blogger.

It’s wrong to live in the past, I hear.
2009 is okay. It’s fine. It’s not Hip Hop In ’94, but it’s good and it’s fine –
DOOM and “Stillness is the Move,” that Camp Lo mixtape and Merriweather Post Pavilion and “Sweet Disposition,” they’re all proof that it’s great to be here and to have ears right about now. Deep breaths.

But sometimes I take a little walk by Eskay’s, and I visit the 2 dope boyz and take a look around and I’m like whut? There’s something called Joe Budden who between ’88 and ’91 would have gotten the bozack and been called a crab MC, but for now he seems to have quite the stronghold on the Internets. And he puts something into Royce’s drink to convince him to lay down tracks with him. It works. Royce gets Stockholm Syndrome and agrees to take part in a video with extras cast by Dov Charney. Joe is Joe’s biggest fan. Joe says that Joe is better than Meth and Joe thinks I want to hear about his girlfriend all day long. Joe is incorrect. The hard-headed never learn.

And all the while I’m like, How did I get here? Where is that large automobile? THIS IS NOT MY BEAUTIFUL HOUSE.

But then, because Rock the Bells is pure magic and makes good things happen (THE RULER!), Rae goes backstage and has a henchman forcefully strike Joe in his upper-face region to remind the youth of America that Rae is great and Joe is a dummy. And I feel calm once again, knowing that I can still count on things like a) There is water/At the bottom of the ocean, b) Rae still makes ’em jump like Rod Strickland, and c) Budden is a Dude Who Will Not Be Seeing Me Naked.

Same as it ever was.


Drudge report.

I’m surrounded by criminals
heavy rollers, even the sheisty individuals*!

Look at this mess of annoying-whiny-white-man-ery I have to wade through in order to keep you abreast of what The Other Side is saying/plotting.
I’m like a saint in a bathing suit, please realize.

Here we have Some Moron saying mean things about President Dreamboat because he can’t stand it that he’s dreamy and runs the world and blah blah and on and on.
Whitey needs to get his insult game tighter. Maybe sit the next one out, Matt. Yeah. Take a breather. You’ll come back harder next time, tiger.

Tue Jun 30 2009 07:43:56 ET

As the summer begins, White House watchers have spotted a new look by President Obama: The Evil Eye!

Staffers have joked about the menacing glance, which comes when the president meets with world leaders who are not aligned with his progressive view.

White House photographers have captured the “evil eye” in recent weeks, during sessions with German Chancellor Angela Merkel and Colombia’s Alvaro Uribev.

Italian Prime Minister Silvio Berlusconi got hit with the commander’s malocchio last week in the Oval office.

And at least one White House reporter has been on the receiving end of the daggers during a press conference.

* Matt Drudge, Don-Draper-swagger-jacker and Dude Who Will Not Be Seeing Me Nekkid.

“I am an idiot.
I will not be seeing Logan naked.
I don’t care for scary black men to make direct eye contact with me.
Also, I am an idiot.”