30 minute mix of slowed down soul songs to get mellow to. Download and pass it around.



Oh god Dumpin

I'm just updating this because I don't want that shitty video being the last thing anyone sees on this crap site. We may come back. We may not. The domain name is up again soon so who knows. I'm currently actively writing for Armchair Linebacker though, and there's always Twitter, which I waste my time with pretty regularly. It's like Dumpin except 140 characters at a time. I live in Brooklyn now. BFD. Oh and I'm currently doing two podcasts, and working on Horror Soul 2. Horror Soul 1 is still available for DL a few posts down. Horrow Soul 2 will sound like an actual mix though and not just a comilation of songs. Yaaaaay.


White People Problems



Hello Dumpin doods I'm back. In an effort to not be as gay as that Vibe tourney this is my list of the top 25 best rappers alive in conjunction with USA TODAY and BET. Enjoy wiggers.

This entry was killing the loading time on Dimpin, so if you are late to the game and want to read it, you can go to BWT's personal blog and see it RIGHT HERE

Buncocky Episode 28: Fatso & The Gay


Mikes family and their recent purchases, what Mikes perfect baby would look like, People Mike wont miss from Providence, what is Metallicas sex life like, Does being bipolar make you awesome, Jay comes out of the closet and says he thinks Sublime is genius which makes Mike threaten to quit the show, a quick plug for another lowly podcast, shout out to the listeners for knowing more about Murphy Brown than anyone really should, Jay sticks his foot in his mouth again and goes on a tirade about who should and shouldnt talk about rap music. www.buncocky.com voicemail is 206.279.9972

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Listen at: www.blubrry.com/buncocky


Dumpin.net March Madness

A few years back, in a project that ultimately created the Xpert Whiteboyz Analysist Posse (or X-WAP... we have a hand signal/gang sign that spells it out, but you have to have six fingers on your left hand, which, oddly enough, both John Dawson and Keenon Mobb both have), we did this Best MC Evar!!! tournament by poll thing to coincide with actual NCAA March Madness on some fucking dork ass message board we all posted on back then, and like most overblown projects where public opinion decides thing, it ended up all screwy, and internet people thought us asseaters for our opinionz.
Well, it's been long enough time, me and mike have been pretend talking about starting up new shit on dumpin for like a month or two now, I am mostly unemployed, with not much to do once my food stamp EBT card runs out each month, so I figured fuck it, let's do it again, like a whiteboy would. Except we (I say "we" but thus far, this has mostly been my brainfuck, because no one is really "motivated" because most of us are either not working or raising newborns or both or mulatto which mixes the laziness of black and the feelings of entitlement of white into one person and that means trouble) figured it better to do something different than just repeat the Best MC Evar!!! gimmick. At one point last year, we had started working on a megalist (which of course was never finished) of living people who could make the hip hop awesome again. So that will be the category. First, here are some disclaimers and proclaimers and rulings regarding that category...
A) the whole "hip hop is dead" meme is fucking played and a half and actually about two cycles of the blogosphere away from becoming retro-hip on the nostalgia tip
B) if you think hip hop is more awesome than ever right now and love you some pink polo shirts with hand-knitted scarves, that's all good; just go ahead and rephrase the "make hip hop awesome again" into "make hip hop even more fucking better than it already is;" let us not argue about semantics fore that might get in the way of useless arguing about what half-obscure shithead is better than some other half-obscure shithead
C) the only people to be considered are still alive fuckers (for-real alive, not Tupac alive) and individuals, not groups/crews/collectives; in the case you are thinking about a crew, pick your favorite/ringleader/backbone to that crowd
D) all of the above

What I am asking for at this point is your input, random fuckers inside the robot screen, as to who should or should not be included in the field of 64. There are multiple ways you can do this. First off, you can go to the sorta dumpin.net message board aka The Secret Clubhouse and there is a thread there in the music folder where this can all be discussed at length. You have to register and then get approved, so sometimes none of us show up for a while, so don't be all like "damn, I registered 21 minutes ago, why can't I post?" It is a laid back place not full of the usual internet faggotry yet, so don't come in there wiping your feet on the coffee table and shit. Although I doubt anyone cares.
If you'd prefer, you can just suggest, discuss, and libel up the list as a response to this post. The making of the field will happen inside the Clubhouse, but I'm certainly not against anonymous nominations here. Also, if you know me or mike's email (I think his is in the sidebar, and mines is ravenmack at gmail you know the rest of the deal), you can send us electronic messages about it. Did you hear about how the post office was gonna start charging like stamps for every email? Yeah, supposedly starting in April. So email us now, before it costs 47 cents.
The first polls will kick off on March 17th, and this whole thing promises to be a thing. How great or stupid it ends up being is entirely up to you, and I will probably blame you for it anyways. So you might as well get in where you're gonna fit in now.

Dumpin Presents: HORROR SOUL VOL. !

(I wanted to make a cool cover picture for this, but I don't have access to my own computer and the one I do have access to doesn't have Photoshop, so just pretend there is a cool cover photo right here)

So I'm unemployed right now, and when I get unemployed I end up completing ideas I had three years ago that I was too lazy to complete at any given time. Sometime in 2005 I was listening to a Quiet Storm style internet radio station when there was some kind of mess up with the stream and a few songs played slightly slower than normal. Slowing down that kind of stuff really brings out this haunted vibe in the music while improving the overall listening experience for those of us who partake in marijuana smoking (or recreational cough syrup usage).

I am obviously not the first person to think of slowing down music. I'm probably not even the 56,293rd person to think of it, but this isn't exactly "screwed", it's slowed down just enough to zone out to, but you can still listen to it in pulic without people thinking you are too much of a weirdo.

This mix was my first attempt at creating "horror soul". It is unblended and nothing fancy because I'm just testing the waters, but I hope to make more volumes in the future. All tracks were lifted from my own records and not some bullshit mp3's that were manipulated in some crap program. It took me a few hours to do. Feedback is much appreciated (as in, 'this is not slow enough' or 'this is just right 4:20 everyday')


1. Heatwave - Star of the Story
2. The Dells - Give Your Baby A Standing Ovation
3. Delphonics - La La Means I Love You
4. Dionne Warwick - I'm Your Puppet
5. Brighter Side of Darkness - Love Jones
6. Africa - Here I Stand
7. David Ruffin - Just Let Me Hold You For A Night
8. Harold Melvin & The Blue Notes - If You Don't Know Me By Now
9. The Stylistics - Break Up To Make Up
10. The O'Jays - Back Stabbers
11. Andrae Crouch & The Disciples - It Won't Be Long
12. Marvin Gaye - Distant Lover
13. Demon Fuzz - Hymn to Mother Earth



Keith, is that you?

I'll tell you something guys. Running this blog is a serious uphill battle for me. We've always tried to deliver our unique brand of meta-humor to the rap blog world, but the rap blog world doesn't seem to be interested in unique brands of meta-humor. There are literally thousands of sentences on this blog baiting readers to jump out of the computer screen and strangle us, and we hardly ever get a bite. We'll get the usual "good job guys" or "funny shit" comments and at the very worst, the shit I hate the most: "Can you re-up ______ please?" comments under some bullshit post I put up two years ago that someone obviously found google searching and unfortunately landed on the one rap blog not at all interested in stroking someone's hard drive to full blown pirated mp3 ejaculation.

So a few days ago, I almost had a heart attack when I received an amazing comment for another two year old blog post. Not since that one guy in the chatbox that would pop up once a month to tell us how stupid we are, have I been so moved by an anonymous commentor.

The comment was posted under our Masta Ace entry for our TOP 100 HIP HOP JAMZ ongoing countdown (I swear we are finishing this!). Here is the original entry

If you don't feel like reading, I will highlight the good stuff. It was actually something Raven wrote that got this guy so riled up:

"Mike made the Kool Keith mention, and I can just tell you right now that Kool Keith doesn't make this list, so fuck off hipster fuckwads and go pick up a 12-pack of PBR to go watch World Cup soccer and shit. Masta Ace was two times better than Kool Keith back when it was the '80s and nobody had solo careers really and one was ultramagnetic and the other was juicy, and then in the '90s, Masta Ace was still four times better, just he didn't rap about schizophrenic bullshit all day long, which confuses hipsters into thinking somebody's clever."

Now this is mainly hilarious because it was a giant lie. Kool Keith ended up finishing 12 spots ahead of Masta Ace on the top 100 list, but Anonymous Commentor was in too much of a rush I guess to go through the entire list before posting this:

"Actually, Keith's just over your stupid heads. Can't take anything away from Masta Ace, but don't act like Keith ain't the shit. So his rhymes ain't always the spiffiest. He still always has his own flows. Dude is hands-down the funniest MC, he's the pissiest, and his metaphors are clever as ever if you got the brains to catch what he's saying.

About half of his stuff is too weird. He takes chances. He don't go for that same bullshit formula, album after album, riding whatever beats were the most popular at the time. Someone as ballsy as him is bound to fail.

Pound for pound Keith has twice the classic tracks that Ace does. More than that. Dude's only released fucking 50 albums or something. How many can Masta Ace claim? How long does it take him to come up with a new idea? How long does that motherfucker sleep for? Keith's up the next morning with a new idea.

But like I said, can't take shit away from Masta Ace or most of anyone involved with Juice Crew. Obvious legends who's music is still relevant today. Especially today.

You guys are just pissed because Keith's always dissing on the backpack scene. You can't handle the fact that he has no use for you. You can't handle the fact that Keith will diss anyone he wants to and they never come back because they know what would happen. They all know who he is. They all heard his album when they heard they were dissed on it. Then they sat back, crossed their fingers and hoped no one noticed. And they didn't, because backpack motherfuckers like you need to hear that same shit over and over again with whatever underground beat is popular at the time.

Suck my dick."

There were so many things about this comment that floored me. The first being that someone took the time out to write a few hundred words in response to a two year old blog post by idiots. The second being that this was pretty well thought up but the person didn't want credit for his comment so he posted it with no name. The third being that some guy thought that two white guys running a rap blog over the age of 27 would somehow NOT like Kool Keith and this wasn't some kind of joke, and the most intriguing of all to me, this comment popped up at 7am on a Tuesday.

My first thought was that this guy must be a foreigner. What kind of American Kool Keith fan is up at 7am on a weekday writing pro-Kool Keith tirades to hardly viewed blogs ? So I checked my stats and sure enough someone was googling "masta ace kool keith" at 7am, but shockingly enough, that person was from New York City!

I can only assume this anonymous commentor is Mr. Kool Keith himself (or at least his manager). It's 2009, Dr. Octagon was like 27 year ago. No American cares about Kool Keith enough anymore to be penning eloquent blog comments at the butt crack of dawn just for the hell of it. SO please Mr. Keith, you must understand that this blog is supposed to be humorous, and we didn't mean any offence. I celebrate most of your entire musical catalog and I even went to that one shitty Warped Tour you played just to see you play like an 18 minute set and it was still the highlight of my year. I understand you had to remain anonymous because you didn't want to blow up your own spot, but deep down, I know that was you on the other end of that keyboard at 7am last Tuesday. Or if it wasn't you, maybe it was Jackie Jasper or Marc Live or Tim Dog or Motion Man, but either way, I am honored that you guys view Dumpin.net and you make it all worth while. Thank you so much.


Fuck White People.

This article came from The Guardian and if the proposed legislation miraculously gets passed, it would be only a matter of time before weed was legalized in my home state of Connecticut. Connecticut has some crazy fucked up rules. We research stem cells, gays get married, but liquor stores have to close by nine. Every single politician to ever come from CT is a spineless piece of shit. People assume that it's all farmland but really it's super rich places next to super trashy places (where Mike and I were growed). I doubt it will get passed because we'd all become heroin addicts with AIDS and sex fetishes, but here's to hoping:

A California state assemblyman from San Francisco has introduced legislation that would legalise and tax marijuana, a move he hopes will help shore up the state's dire finances.

The bill by San Francisco representative Tom Ammiano, would legalise the cultivation, possession and sale of marijuana by people 21 and older. It would charge growers and wholesalers a $5,000 (£3,400) initial franchise fee and a $2,500 annual renewal fee, and would levy a $50 per ounce fee on retailers.

The law, which would make California the first state to legalise marijuana, would inject an estimated $13bn a year in revenue into California's empty coffers. Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger on Friday signed a $130bn budget that raises sales and income taxes, and dramatically slashes spending. States across the country are facing massive revenue shortfalls, as income and real estate tax receipts fall and outlays for unemployment insurance and health coverage rise.

Is it just me or did every single weed smoking revolutionary propose this exact idea? I remember sitting in my wife's attic bedroom (long before we were married) playing Mario Kart with Mike and her while this dude JewJay preached this exact same fucking plan. JewJay could almost make weed suck by talking about it too much. He listened exclusively to Weird Al and Bone Thugs, wrote heroic epics with names like "Ode to the Bitchass Blue Oinkers," and never, EVER, let his stash fall below an eighth. He called(s) it "Ganj" and "Endo." He also idolized Smoky from Friday. He was usually the supplier of the weed so we'd have to follow his rules. He had a bowl he liked to pass around and he implemented the "Puff, Puff, Give" rule that Smoky made when Craig was bogarting a blunt. If it doesn't sound completely backwards, try "Puff, Puff, Giving" with a bowl. It really drags things out (no pun).

Anywho, JewJay loved weed like crackheads love crack. During his eight years of college (Bachelor's in Political Science) he actually wrote a paper for one of his classes about how and why weed should be legalized. I hope, for once, that JewJay gets and this California state assemblyman gets his way. If youd like to read the entire article you can do so here.

Bigfoot's Dick

So my friend Dez (along with the sensual guiding hands of Mr. Dibbs) has a new mixtape out for FREE that all of you leeches should download. I know a lot of cool people who are involved in a lot of shitty music projects, but I actually listen to Dez's music recreationally, which means I genuinely like his shit. I'm only a few tracks into this new jam, but it's worth your time especially free.


New CunninLynguists song isn't over my head.

I'll hopefully have a more well thought out post soon but the next couple weeks will be hectic on my end. Anyway, I always thought the CunninLynguists were kind of blah and then that one album came out with the cartoon twizzy fairy lady on the cover and blog dudes got mega boners over them, and I listened to that album several times but I guess I just didn't get it. This new jam is about weed though, which is something I can fully understand.

Outside of this CunninLynguists jam, I've been doing the Stanky Legg for the past few days....


An interview

So despite both parties of this interview having complete access to post on here, Jay asked me to post this interview he did with Raven (on behalf of Raven's rapping group Solaris Earth Pipeline). I don't know what kind of queerbait shit is going on where they couldn't get together and cut and paste this stuff themselves, but here you go:

Convincing my wife to let me drive from our home in Connecticut to Virginia was not easy. That I was going to interview a white rapper made it harder. The goocher was that the trip was a labor of curiosity and paid nothing. I was on a vision quest. Solaris Earth Pipeline potentially offered an answer to a long considered question of mine: Could rap music prove honest? Forget about political agendas guised in honesty, or "keeping it real" by fabricating oneself, or the countless misrepresentations of truth in the crux of our country's popular culture. I was after the real deal, and I hoped to have found it in Solaris Earth Pipeline. My wife let me go because she knew me restless mental and she accepted my lunacies.

Solaris Earth Pipeline consists of Psy/0psogist (beat conjuror), Raven Mack (lyricist), and an oft-changing cycle of contributors. Psy/0psogist, as the group's name suggests, tapped into a beat inspiring pipeline, a hip-hop back alley in some lost corner of the space/time continuum. The sincerity in Raven Mack's lyrics are as otherworldly to rap music as homosexuals and fifty-year-old white women—or so was my inclination. Thus is what I hoped to prove. Right now, one could point to any sales charts and show me how deep the pockets of business are, but will it be here in two-hundred years? Can it survive the test of generations? Such an achievement depends on whether or not the culture can overcome the cliché that it has become. The only way for that to be accomplished it to allow rappers to be people. .

It was cool outside. I held my jacket tight around me. I followed Raven Mack to the late seventies model camper that he had commandeered from a gypsy woman who left it in his backyard. It had spent decades nurturing yellowing grass and rusted car parts. Raven had converted it into his den of anti-lucidity. He told me to wait at the door. Seconds later, courtesy of a hanging halogen lamp powered by a series of multicolored extension cords that led back to the house, we had light. The camper's walls were dingy browns and yellows cultivated through years of hard-earned negligence and smoke. Books, magazines, and records were stacked—Jack Kerouac was sandwiched between Julia Child and a biography of Abraham Lincoln. The Source, Popular Mechanics, Playboy, and Pro Wrestling Illustrated, Lynyrd Skynyrd, EPMD, Molly Hatchet, many faces of Wu Tang, and Jim Croche, all of them gathered in the camper as if ready to perform a demon festival—an anti-Woodstock with Raven serving as the Master of Ceremonies. Records were glued at random and it smelled of cheap beer, stale marijuana, dead things. It was the dwelling of a madman, a cranky genius, a misguided hippie, a super-dork. A picture drawn in crayon of a dreadlocked hobo in overalls was taped on the wall next to a foldout table with bench seats. I sat down and placed my tape recorder on the table. It was a clunky machine from the mid 80's I dug up from my parent's basement. I was reluctant to stain my journalistic integrity with primitive equipment, but the sophistication of the Winnebago put me at ease. Raven sat across from me.

"Your lyrics contain a level of cynicism underlined with a hope that things could get better. Is that intentional?"

"Nah, makes sense," he said and pulled a pair of Miller High Lifes from under his seat. He handed me one and opened his own. "I had a [SIC] uncle that killed himself over a crazy bitch, and he visited me in dreams a number of times, and the thing I realized is that as much as life sucks, there's no guarantees beyond it. You never want to go into a gamble completely blind, and at least with life, you can find corners to burrow into and immerse yourself into the perverse shit that makes you feel good." He spoke in breathless rants natural to his Virginian accent. He was tall with thick dreadlocks that draped over his shoulders. His unruly beard seemed more personal philosophy than fashion statement. The 81 on the clearance rack Redskins jersey he wore was chipped and fading. What would Art Monk have thought upon seeing that particular fan wearing that particular jersey?

I opened my Miller and took a sip. "In songs like Rap Grammar you talk about growing up poor in Virginia, and how your parents struggled to raise you and your sister. How did your parents and your immediate surroundings influence your music and your writing process?"

"My dad played a lot of outlaw country, but he played a lot of everything. He never liked the rap music, though. I don't know how I got into it. Probably because I liked to talk a lot of shit and you could talk a whole lot more shit, on pure word count, by rapping than anything else. I don't really think about what I write, though. It just happens," he leaned back and considered the question. "A lot of times, I just have dreams where I'm looking at sheets of paper with lyrics, or sometimes books that are printed and I've written it all, and I usually like to read it, but then I wake up and just try to write down what I can remember seeing."

"Can you point to a song that came from one of these dreams?"

"On the last S.E.P. [45s on 33], there's a few songs on there where at least big parts of it came from inside my brain beyond what I usually know," he said and produced a crooked joint from behind his ear. "The 'More Than Just breath' song—a lot of that one was like that." He lit it, offered it to me, and shrugged when I refused.

"What's the scene like when you're writing lyrics?" I asked.

"If I want it to it always happens, but I stifle it most times to not be thought of as a rambling-ass homeless dude. You get into letting lyrics loose and it's hard to stop. Your brain just does it, like you gave yourself a foot fetish." He exhaled smoke as he spoke without as much as a stutter; it was a commendable feat of lung capacity, freakish even. "And once it gets to that point, writing lyrics is basically just sitting down and scribbling out what your brain usually does."

"So would you say it's like thinking but with rhythm?" I challenged him with a raised eyebrow, convinced I had managed to reduce his whole system into a trivial statement.

"Not really," he said, the matter-of-fact rebuttal of an expert shit-talker. "There is no rhythm to a man's thinking."

"That sounds like a slogan from a clever t-shirt."

"I should tell my man, Deric. He has a t-shirt company."

"He could put Bob Marley on it."

"Nah, somebody more obscure but cool, though. Sub-Commandant Marcos."

"Who's that?"

"Some Mexican dude who wore a ninja mask and shot motherfuckers with AK-47s."

"He'd have to be smoking weed or the shirt wouldn't sell."

He drained his beverage and gently brought the empty can down as if it were a fine China tea-cup. The smoke that clouded the room looked as appropriate as a lit candle with a romantic dinner. "I don't buy shirts that cost as much as t-shirts like that cost, so I ain't the target demographic, probably. Coffeehouse revolutionaries."

"Exactly. People who would love your music."

A kiss of lunacy danced in his eyes. He looked at me as if I had just called his children ugly. Raven was burly like a rusted aluminum beer keg and exuded menace. Nobody knew where I was but for my wife, and she was none too happy with me. "I say that because there is an honesty about your music that goes down to the core of who you are and what you represent—the exact type of person that 'Coffeehouse Revolutionaries' turn into fashion trends. Maybe it's dishonesty about themselves that make them attracted to honest people. Who does S.E.P. write music for?"

"Me and PSY/OPS, ultimately. Beyond that, if our goodest friends dig it, then we know it's okay."

I sighed. "But besides that, do you ever dream of selling a billion copies?"

"I'd like to tour again, but that's it."

To protect his image would have cancelled my theory. Rap music would forever remain a cliché turned joke turned outright and blatant lie. How many crack dealing, pimping, bullet wounded mafia dons possess latent venomous rhymes. My guess? None. Not one. Maybe one. Possibly two, but that's it—definitely not 85% of the hip-hop community. Rappers in argyle V-necks cashing paychecks earned by caring about social issues, anime loving skateboarders trying to redefine "the game" by redefining themselves, the music addicted, the ass-obsessed party jammers, ballers, playboys, mock serial killers, and those who potty-mouthed for attention rounded off most of the remaining 15%. My whole reason for driving to Virginia was to prove that the ever evasive label that rappers often claim—the truth—actually existed. Raven would have to represent himself with the same unadulterated sincerity found in his lyrics. For everything to fall to the wayside by a punk rock cliché would have broken my heart.

Virginian moonlight shined on him through fogged up window that was framed by a set of mustard colored curtains. He dug deeper. "I'm thirty-five and did this shit in my early twenties when we could have gotten shitty record deals, so I don't think much about all that. Nobody buys records nowadays and the people at our shows would probably be people I didn't like, so I'd get drunk and fight people at the shows, which, knowing the world, would lead to more touring."

"Could you honestly hate somebody who is showing you unconditional love?" I asked.

"Personally, I'd probably dig them. But standing on stage looking at a bunch of dumbass white people in goofy-ass clothes, I'd probably want to fight them, too."

"About being white," I said, pausing, organizing. "Successful white rappers, talented or otherwise, seem reliant upon gimmickry. ICP has to be ICP; Eminem has to go lengths to offend. White rappers are automatically a few steps behind, not unlike challenges that I imagine black people face on a daily basis. Do you feel that what you present in your music and onstage is a fair representation of who you really are?"

"It's just me, man. I'm old enough to where I don't give a fuck about impressing people. I got a wife and three kids so I don't need blowjobs from Jennifer Love Hewitts no more. Usually people have gimmicks to remain marketable, but fuck…there's no music market anymore. People are all broke," he said, gesturing with his hands. "White people are like everybody else, so I shouldn't use that phrase so easily, but honestly, it's fucking white people who dropped out of college who tend to like our bullshit. Older black dudes tend to like us, too. Dudes from the Eighties."

"So what's it like working with Psy/Opsogist?" I asked.

"Me and the PSY/OPS aren't really on the same page with a lot of things, musically. 45s on 33 was me trying to influence him more with my thinking. But he's intense, so it works out good, because even if he plays me some beats that I think are shitty, I know he's at least fucking trying."

"Do you guys get along when you're working?"

"Yeah, except for when he gets too high. Although he'd probably tell you it doesn't work when I don't drink," he said through a half-smirk.

I took a deep drink from my beer. He offered me another but I politely declined, mine still being half-full. "Tell me about him. How would you describe him as a musician and how would you describe what he does?"

"He's a failed Indy Rock guitarist. But one who's tormented with sounds like I am tormented with words. He calls his music "Soundtrack to Nightmares" and that's what it is. He's only been doing beats for four years, but I figure he would've ate a bullet by now if he didn't do them."

Sitting in a camper decorated like a post-apocalyptic museum exhibit on American culture while a poorly dressed Virginian feeding on marijuana and beer, a feeling that I had long tried to put into words was finally verbalized for me. If I don't write for a while I start to get frustrated and my chemistry is thrown off. Tormented by words. I repeated it under my breath. "Tormented by words." Anyone engaged in any kind of artistic pursuit should be able to identify. It's one of Raven's greatest lyrical attributes. The ability to turn a clever phrase is the physical manifestation of what rappers do. Raven, though, does it without pretense while maintaining the integrity of the sentiment as if guilt-stricken by lies. He's spot on.

"What do you think about where rap is right now? Pop music and otherwise."

"I don't even listen to anything," he laughed. "It's basically two forms of shit: mainstream shit which is predictable and MSG-laced, and then the underground poly-syllabic hyper-intelligent posturing."

I nodded. "Kurt Vonnegut's novel, Breakfast of Champions, has a line in it that always makes me think I'm smart because I think about it after I read it and raise it whenever appropriate. When responding to the question 'What is the meaning of life?' [Vonnegut's character] Kilgore Trout says, 'To be the eyes and ears and conscience of the Creator of the Universe, you fool.' How does that sit with you? Is it a legitimate intense statement or pseudo-deep bullshit?"

"Words are always bullshit. People get caught up in finding a meaning for what they do with themselves all the time, but really, if you enjoy it, what the fuck does it matter? Some uptight old lady crocheting spare toilet paper roll covers, hating on 'coloreds' and eating breakfast at McDonald's everyday, if she's happy, what does she owe anybody? People looking for meaning in life are probably unhappy with their life."

"Isn't finding the meaning of things what makes what we do worth it? Is music strictly carnal or is it something you use to get to the bottom of life?"

"Pretty much carnal," he said. "I do it for personal satisfaction, but hopefully it gives other people something they can dig upon at the same time."

We hung out for another couple of hours and talked over some beers. I left the camper feeling smug about my success. Raven had proven honest. Truth could exist in hip-hop. On the highway heading north, the desperate but nourishing ghetto farmland of rural Virginia tapering off behind me like an echo, I thought about how my wife had let me make this ridiculous trip and spend cash that we didn't really have. Then the lesson behind Raven's words became clear. I am just a guy with a tape recorder and a machine that enables me to record words that build sentences that form opinions. Honesty doesn't have a vocabulary. It is prominent in every single intention we put into action, and every single idea that we ignore. To be conscious, alive, and to choose is to be sincere to our ambitions. To place a claim on the truth is to lose it completely. I drove all the way to Virginia so I could put my stamp of approval or disapproval on the integrity of rap music, but the truth doesn't come from words, images or representations. It comes from singing the song that you want to sing. Cruising ever forward, leaving the Virginia moon to Raven and Psy/0psogist, I came to the conclusion that life is never more real then when you accept things for what they are.



Jay and Mike discuss a new self pleasure device called The Real Touch followed by an inteeligent discussion on four hour erections so you may want to fast forward 15 minutes or so if you are frightened of sexy talk, also talk aout the peculiar smell of bacon pizza, Kanye West lookalikes in court, a crap musician supergroup, and Mike gives Jays fashion sense a Stone Cold Stunner. The last segment was mistakenly erased so theres some heartfelt apologies to listen to at the end. www.buncocky.com voicemail is 206.279.9972. GIVE US A CALL

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Mike Dikk: This is the EWA's (Expert Whiteboy Analysis for the uninitiated) first official return to longwinded wordy blog list after over a year long hiatus so I thought I should give you some backstory. We have a little message board that's open to anyone if you sign up, but within that message board there's a SECRET message board where we come up with ideas for crap to write about. It's real sad looking at the posts there over the past year. There's a ton of good ideas and projects that never got off the ground. This Scary Black Guys list was the closest we got to completing a project. It was originally supposed to be a Top 25 list like the rest of our junk, and I think we even made it to 16 before we lost interest. I wasn't happy with some of the picks so I shaved it down to 10. I guess we really aren't as secretly racist as we thought we were before we went in to this.

The idea is simple: Come up with a list of Scary Black Guys (in no particular order). We didn't rely on fictional characters because that would have been corny since the whole list would have been dudes from The Wire or some such shit. Internet friend Tree Beats joined us on this project. He used to do the TREE BEATS and I HOOK A BEAT UP blogs, but I haven't talked to him since we started this thing up last November and he may be dead for all I know. As per usual with our stuff, some of the picks are a little abstract and some are pretty expected. I hope you enjoy. Oh, and please don't think we really are secretly racist. Keenon is an EWA alumni and he is half black.


RAVEN MACK (RM): So this is the Xpert Whiteboy Analysists panel reformed like Voltron made from stolen copper in a crackhead's shopping cart. Nothing really caused us to do this other than boredom, which is actually the exact same reason we stopped doing it. Hip hop is fucking boring. It is either pop bullshit pretending to be real, or it is self-important indy bullshit acting like it's real. The Xpert Whiteboy, not us so much as the overall phenomenon, loved the gangsta shit. But he also took a couple of anthropology and sociology classes in college and ended up loving the indy shit. But then it got all confusing, so he started liking retarded shit, like Lil Wayne or Kanye West or that forebearer of retarded style that every budding Xpert Whiteboy cites as the greatest - Kool Keith. So we're not going to do hip hop exclusively anymore, because what's the fucking point? There's a thousand pretentious blogs about hip hop inside the internets dirty intestines, and you can read a plethora of expert whiteboys, although they're not upfront about that like we were, within three clicks of this place.Also, I probably shouldn't but will speak for everybody when I say we could give half a fuck about you shouting out or linking up dumpin. We write stupid shit for stupid fuckers to have a stupid laugh about. The only people who make money writing are hack verbal prostitutes who do not spend enough disillusioning themselves with illicit substances and harsh reality. Dumpin.net is about nothing except filling up space with entertaining words on trivial matters. We are your friend, for sure, but don't be hitting up the cbox with link trade bullshit or check out your all 1993 instrumentals blog or whatever the fuck (unless it's dub music, or Hawkwind bootlegs from pre-1978). Just enjoy us. If you have something enjoyable that is written out and not just a bunch of fucking rapidshare links, email me or Mike. We love to read. People still do that you know? You fucking text messaging pieces of shit.Anyways, our first new style top 25 Xpert Whiteboyz Analysists piece is about Scary Black Men. Because one thing the expert whiteboy is infatuated with, almost to a cuckold level, is the scary black man. We are fascinated by his cocksure swagger yet terrified by his ability to completely dominate us, against our will. It is a disturbing paradox. White guilt? Perhaps, to an extent. Karmic retribution for our slaveholding ancestors? Nigga please. That's a hackysack way of describing white guilt.So let us take your internet hand by way of your eyeballs and walk with us through a list of Scary Black Men, to Xpert Whiteboyz (and possibly one mulatto, if his black half's blood sugars ain't acting up again).

MIKE DIKK (MD): Hello. If you really want to know anything ridiculous about me, I do a sometimes weekly podcast with Jay called
Buncocky. You can listen to that and learn more about me than you ever wanted to. (Subscribe through iTunes!)

JOHN RICHARD DAWSON (JD): John forgot to write an intro. I think he has a kid now or something. He may or may not be a teacher.

KEENON MOBB (KM): To be really honest with you, I don't actively rank black dudes I'm scared of unless you ask me about it specifically. It's not something that keeps me up at night, thinking, "OOH, THAT NIGGA FREDDIE FOXXX WOULD PROBABLY BEAT ME WITH A TIRE IRON AND RAP ABOUT IT ON A DJ PREMIER BEAT!" as I shake in my shell-toed pajama pants. I know some black dudes that would probably scare a good chunk of you people reading this if you met them in the wrong context. It's not that they're especially violent or scary or whatever, they just give you the impression that shit might jump off if they're around and you might get sucked in if you're in the wake. Anyway, there are black dudes that I'd never think of fucking with, but I don't really imagine myself going after anyone in general. The worst thing I want to do most of the time is yell at someone or throw a shoe at them for being fucking dumb. Fight Club doesn't resonate a chord in my basal ganglia that makes me want to hit and get hit just for shits & giggles. I'm a lover, not a fighter.

JAY PUD (JP): Hello, I'm Jay Pud, and if I was your friend I would totally try to french your girl. I'd shit talk you when you weren't around until she let me stick my tongue in her mouth. Word up.

TREE BEATS (TB): I be a mother fucking Kindergarten teacher and shit. I once ate ostrich meat. I also used to be called “McQueer” because I have a “Mc” last name and that was a clever way to flip it and make me sound like I was the homosexuals. But I quit sword fighting at 16. Nahmean!?


JP: The last time I did Ecstasy was when my wife was still my girlfriend and we were at her house. She ate half a pill and I ate one and a half. We started watching some dumb Disney cartoon or something that sounded like a good idea at the time. Before it kicked in she fell asleep, and I just figured that she didn’t take enough for it to work. I started rolling pretty hard and began to play Mario Kart feeling super good like Ecstasy makes one feel. Then my girlfriend woke up tripping balls and super freaked out, forgetting that she had taken a pill before she fell asleep. I spent that entire night trying to calm her down and not once did I get angry or upset. Why? Because I was on E, and that shit makes you feel nothing but goodness. Well, except when you wake up on it and think you have gone insane.One time Suge Knight took Ecstasy and some Vicodins and beat the shit out of his girlfriend in a parking lot. I cannot imagine the inner turmoil, the broken self esteem, the sheer strength of heartbreak that he must feel when he’s sober. His insides must feel like there’s a blood piranha eating his organs. I feel bad for him and I hope he finds comfort.

RM: To understand what makes Suge Knight so ominously one-track minded, you have to understand the gangsta rap mentality. And to understand the gangsta rap mentality, you have to understand the gangsta mentality. But the west coast (meaning L.A.) gangsta mentality was tragically perverted in 1984 by the U.S. gubermint's desire to have a squeaky clean Olympics. Yeah, just like we mocked the Chinks for shutting down factories and shuffling off undesireables, the U.S. swept through the streets of Los Angeles, rounding up any misdemeanor miscreant they could on parole violations, minor charges, or whatever they could make up, to clean up the city for the arrival of a bunch of dumb ass foreigners with open pocketbooks. On the surface level, this would seem a great idea - rid the city of it's criminal element. But gangs, like any semi-concealed sub-culture, bears a strong resemblance to tribal cultures. Never-ending blood feuds where nobody remembers why it started are the negative side of such tribalism, but on the opposite end is how the elders schooled the youngsters on the ways of the tribe. Before 1984, older gang members trained younger ones on the street code, and yeah there were murders, but there had to be good reason for murder. After the gang sweeps before the summer of 1984, the streets were left with a bunch of wannabe thug kids and very little elder O.G. leadership, which led to unprecedented drive-bys, stabbings, and all sorts of nefarious bullshit. Even loveable cartoon-voiced Tone Loc got into a shootout with the Boo-Yaa Tribe one time. Motherfuckers went buckwild.
That's what Suge grew up emulating. Not the honorable bullshit code of the criminal, but the "I'll make any motherfucker do anything" pistol-wielding mentality. He doesn't give a fuck, which is why he can do X and end up beating a bitch who ain't wearing no pants in the middle of a parking lot. But I think where I really was like, "Oh fuck, Suge is twisted," was when that Big Lurch rapper dude got arrested a few years back.Big Lurch was a Texas rapper who came out to Cali to join up with Death Row. The alleged story is that Suge wanted him to understand what being a gangsta was in order to be a more realistic gangsta rapper, which is a fair enough demand. Ain't no half-steppin' allowed. So what Suge did was give the dude some angel dust and told him to go do some gangsta shit. Well, it just so happens that Big Lurch ended up being found by police, wandering the streets covered in blood, because his inner-mind's idea of gangsta shit was to murder his roommate, stab her all up like a Manson fan, and chew on one of her lungs that he dug out with a knife. Suge's response? He didn't mean for the dude to do all that. He probably just meant some simple pistol-whippings or strong arm robberies. Not eating some chick's innards and wandering around like Bushwick Bill in the "Mind Playin' Tricks On Me" video. And that line of defense helped Suge beat a wrongful death suit from the dead bitch's family. Big Lurch is still in jail.Okay, now here's some Xpert Whiteboyz look at me I'm awesome white dude so down with the hip hop bullshit right here. I used to have a rapping group with this dude I worked with Rob (he was black, too... I am SO down). We painted houses and freestyled all day long, to the point we could do tag team freestyle battles with other motherfuckers and finish each other's lines because we were always together and they'd think we were doing pre-written shit because they were haters. Anyways, Rob used to be babysitted by the Lady Rage (aka Robin) back in the day, as we was all from Farmville, VA. We had kicked it with the Lady Rage (aka Robin) a couple times, mostly Rob, but like twice me too, and we had kinda written some shit called "Triple R Rated" (get it, Raven, Rob, and Rage... all our names start with an "R", isn't that clever as fuck?), which was just some shit-talking rhymes since that's all me and Rob mostly wrote. Like 75% slick verbals with like 20% drunkenness and 5% knowledge (we were way into Wu Tang-aphysics). Anyways, this dude I knew in Raleigh wanted to start pressing 12-inch singles, and he wanted to do one of me and Rob (we were called RUI for rhymin' under the influence, which was a play on DUI, like you know, when people drink while drunk?), and we figured the best way to get it hyped or even noticed at all was to have the Lady Rage (aka Robin) on the "Triple R Rated" song on the B-side (because this was before there were guest rappers on every song ever, so that you don't even appear on your own album anymore, it's just guest producers and rappers and you kind of coordinate it all in between doing guest spots on other people's albums). Rob presented this scenario to the Lady Rage (aka Robin) and she flipped the fuck out and pulled out of everything, didn't even want to talk about the song anymore. She told Rob if she did a song anywhere else, Suge would kill her. Rob was all like, "It's just a shitty white label indy single some white dude in Raleigh is pressing," but she was like, "He's gonna kill us! He's gonna kill you, he's gonna kill me! He's gonna kill us!" She didn't really say it that way; I just mix up in my mind the black kid freaking out with Spicoli in Fast Times at Ridgemont High with the Lady Rage (aka Robin) not wanting to do a song with me and Rob (who were totally rhymin' under the influence). But the point is, back then (I guess like '96 or '97), she was pretty adamant about Suge's ability to kill motherfuckers over very small trifling matters. And that is how I almost totally got killed by Suge Knight.

TB: There was a time when Suge (does anyone ever call him Suge? I mean, he is always clarified with the “Knight” surname but how many other “Suge”s do you know of or talk about?) was the Cracken that even titans dared not clash. He dangled scrawny white people that did the running man out of windows and, while I was never considered scrawny, I did partake in a running man or two at high school dances. I also did the Kid N Play kick-step which, one night, led to me getting head-butted in the face by my dance partner (homo) and flattening me out on the dance floor with a mouthful of blood. The good news is it fixed the diastema that linked me aesthetically to Alfred E Newman. And was much cheaper than the Dentist in Barrington who ended up having a nervous break down anyway. Suge Knight also got a bunch of dudes to beat up or at least lead a Jew and a man with AIDS to believe that they would get beat to bloody unrecognizable masses if they did not release Andre Young from his contract. If you are bullying a dude with AIDS and a balding Jew who sweats a lot and obviously can’t fight, then you are dangerous and living on the edge and I therefore am afraid of you.The recent events of him getting punched out by some dude simply prove that there are even more scary and meaner black men then Suge and thusly, I am even more afraid to dance and thank Jesus for my Gentile bloodline.

KM: See, I wouldn't fuck with Suge Knight because he's like 4.5 times my size. He has been to jail for real things that don't involve bench warrants. Dude dangled Vanilla Ice off a balcony for royalties. He may or may not have had something to do with the deaths of Biggie and 2Pac. Even if none of that shit were an issue, he is still way bigger than me and has dudes who are likely paid to sit around wait for something to jump off so they can hurt someone. Their W-2 probably says something like "security management" but we all know that that one guy at the end with the Mac-11 in his pants is only there to put holes in people if that's what needs to happen. Suge Knight is like a black mafioso dude. I mean you don't have to live in fear of bears, but you don't go chase down bears and smack them in the nose with your dick either. It's not mortal terror, more of a general unease that accompanies a sense of respect for something that's a bit more dangerous than me and mine.


RM: You know, to many people, Kimbo Slice's 15 minutes of fame is over, and they are lolling all over Elite XC and CBS for putting so much pop culture hype behind such a crazy negro. I, for one, am glad for Kimbo. Those people were using him, and no matter how much they paid him, they were making triple that. It also goes to show how stupid MMA is. Not because it hyped up Kimbo Slice, but because so many people are like, "Haha, stupid Kimbo Slice got beat in 14 seconds by a gay dude."I am about to say something that is not conventionally popular, but MMA sucks. It is stupid and semi-gay and has far too many dickheads with too obviously stupid tattoos to be taking seriously as an actual form of sport. I don't care about the human cockfighting arguments, or any of that shit. In fact, I would like it more if it were more like human cockfighting, like the original Ultimate Fighting Championships were. Eight men in a one-night tournament. But now it's all serious like motherfuckers have to train for eight months to roll around with some dude with a faux-hawk and ominous back tattoos on an octagonal mat for four minutes before one of them lucks into a chokeout. Tap tap tap, game over. It's fucking stupid. Anybody can beat anybody, which again is why the one-night tournament of human destruction makes so much more sense, as opposed to some random dude beating some overhyped dude, and all he does is earn the overhype to get beaten by some other random dude at some point in the future.Kimbo Slice is a scary dude from the streets, who beat people up in back yards and helped protect guys making amateur porns. That's what he is - it is the cloth he's perfectly cut from. To see him on the regular people's television stations, laughing it up with credible sportscasters, and being all polished yet scary black guy - it wasn't real. A guy like Kimbo is meant to have white deodorant marks on his underarms and a food crumb or two in his beard. That's what the fuck he was born to be. He was meant to beat up other denizens of the underclass in abandoned warehouses, and if somebody present somehow manages to not have their small digital camera stolen by vagrants on the way to and fro the event, and they can video it and throw it up on the youtubes, then we all are the better for it. But if not, fuck it man. You can go watch scary black dudes fight under any giant bridge over a river in most major metropolises in America. And it's always good fun. Because as scary as those dudes are, all they want is to release some tension. So after they have a stupid fight with some other sad sack of shit, you can all stand around and share fortified wines and toothless crack whore blowjobs and enjoy life. You could see in Kimbo's eyes, no matter what they were paying him to exploit his scary black guyness, he wasn't happy. He wasn't enjoying life. He wanted to be with the sluts and perverts and depleted livers. Now, hopefully, big Kimbo can go home. May peace be with you, and your heart again find happiness now that the fancy man's bright promises of mass fame turned to fool's gold, Mr. Slice.

KM: Let me put this in the perspective that matters. All of this hoopla about Kimbo getting his ass handed to him in under a minute is ridiculous. Yes, in a situation where he was fighting a trained professional that's more skilled in that certain environment, he got knocked the fuck out. If you got in the ring with Seth Petruzelli, you would probably get knocked the fuck out. However, I still believe in Kimbo's terror-inducing aura because that doesn't mean jack shit in the real world. If Kimbo Slice walked up to you in person, you wouldn't talk shit unless you're retarded or have a death wish. He can still fuck you up on the streets even if he can't escape a triangle choke every time. The fear is because he's a big-ass black motherfucker with a giant beard that plays into every prison raping, white woman deflowering, baby eating black bogeyman fear just by being the intimidating monster that he is. That, and he beat people's faces into pizza on the internet for a while before he ever got on with Elite XC. Even if he never won a MMA fight as long as he lived, I would still walk a wide berth around that dude.


RM: My wife has had five kids in seven years, has gained the accompanying weight, not to mention the built-in desire to not have her body touched that a woman who has nursed children constantly since before 9/11, so I've had to look for other outlets for my sexual tension. Like most men, I really like having things stroke my penis back and forth until ejaculation happens. Many dudes get hung up on having actual living, breathing vaginas to do this, but I am open-minded enough to get in where I fit in; and I love my wife and our childrens, and wouldn't want to jeopardize all that for a strange piece of ass. (Not to mention child support payments. That shit sucks. And they be having computers hooked up state-to-state to catch your social security number and MAKE motherfuckers pay that shit, even for kids you don't like that live with stupid bitches you used to date.)So anyways, my wife is open-minded enough to not want me to poke at her with my always-semi-hard penis to allow me to have a sex doll. I mean, we use a lot of toys, because it spices up the bedroom (dudes, if you can get over your machismo homophobia and realize if a chick inserts it, it's totally straight, let me tell you, anal plugs are fucking awesome). So I went to the local perv store to try and find a fake suction vagina or rubber doll or something. I mean, I can masturbate with the best of them (if I've ever taken a shower at your house, I guarantee my unovaried babies have washed down your drain), but sometimes you want that build-up of excitement. To think about something all day long, at least for like an hour, and go into some nice half-light or dim room, and poke your penis into something attractive but three-dimensional (sorry internet porn!). But most of the rubber dolls were too rubbery. Really, a word of advice to anyone seeking sexual toys in their life, don't get all freaked out and grab the first thing. Whether it's dildos or vibrators or anal plugs or dolls or whatever, there's crudely made synthetic crap, and there's finely made stuff more attuned to pleasure. I mean sex is sensual, so you want shit to be as realistic as possible.Well, I'm sure you all know about the Real Dolls that that fucked-up
BBC documentary was about, where the one dude had like eight life-size dolls and his girlfriend came in and he had set a couple of them up with party hats for a birthday party. Those jams are like $7000 a doll, but realistic as fuck (haha, no pun intended). And I figured the wife might not want to make sex any time soon, because I wouldn't if I had to take care of all our children all the time and they had come from my body and turned into these things running around the house and yard and tearing shit up and always wanting snacks or ballet music on or breast milk or some fucking thing every minute of every hour of every moment of sunshine and half the night time to boot. So we decided it would be in our best interests for me to look for one of these Real Dolls. Except we can't afford some dumb shit that expensive. I mean fuck, I've only owned one car my whole life that cost that much, and I still owe almost $5000 on that. So what I decided to do was dip into the Real Doll world to try and find me a second-hand doll. I guess to most dudes that would be gross, but fuck man, they're made to be washed out. And most dudes who want a Real Doll lack real life womanly relationships, so the lack of sharing is important to them, because they want to feel special. I have an ol' lady, and could fuck a number of real life women, from the bank teller lady always flirting with me really hard to the two or three of my friend's wives who are always showing me their tits in the kitchen while their old man is in the bathroom. Having sex is not a problem. But I want to remain faithful, physically, to my wife. So I don't mind using some loser's sloppy seconds of a six thousand dollar creation.It was while trying to peruse this little sub-culture that I became far too knowledgeable on Davecat. He's the black dude in that BBC documentary, but he's also all over the internet (google "shouting to hear the echoes"). It is easy to dismiss the homely geek white dudes who have Real Doll girlfriends. But Davecat is on some other shit, being like 40-something, still living with his folks, and dressing like some sort of mod rocker. He trips me the fuck out, mostly because he seems like he's not a pervert... if that's possible in such a situation, but also because he reminds me of my friend from college Crazy Jai. I found myself being proud for Davecat for being so openly weird, mad at his pops for not accepting him as a dude who loves on a rubber doll, albeit a really nice synthetic rubber doll. Props to Matt McMullen, who invented Real Dolls. And props to ebay, where I finally found a buxom, wide-hipped, brown-haired Real Doll (most of these things have very slender hips, not good for birthing children). It cost me about $380, and that included shipping, bought from a guy in Louisville, Kentucky, who was getting married and had to get rid of the thing because his fiancee didn't know and wouldn't approve and if he kept it around it would be too tempting. I cleaned it up really thoroughly, just to be safe, and keep it in the camper behind my house, which is also where I write a lot of times. Sometimes, I flick on the red light, move the peach crate of records out the way of the bathroom door (that's where I store a bunch of shit, since the camper's not hooked up to no septic or nothing) and pull her out. And we fuck. It's a lot of fun, and way better than just masturbating to porn pics on the internet.

MD: Davecat is unfortunately the most normal dude in that entire
“Guys and Dolls” documentary. The real problem is that he’s like most people who got into the internet at an early stage so he is all proud to show off on the internet by blogging and talking about anime and taking pictures of his imaginary Real Doll girlfriend to share with his blog followers. The rest of the guys, whom were all white, that were showcased in the documentary had very private social retardations. Just a bunch of non-descript creepo touchers you can find in a grocery store at 2am buying a jar of pickles and you KNOW the dude is somehow fucked in the head because he’s at the grocery store buying pickles and nothing else at an ungodly hour, but you can’t really prove it because he doesn’t have a wonky eye and he’s not talking to himself or anything. I guess there was that one sketchy looking hessher dude they showcased too, but I imagine those are the types of people Raven would see at a grocery store at 2am, so he’d probably be non-descript to him.
The fact that Davecat is so open with this shit, and the fact that he’s apparently black (though he looks more like some weird Island race than an actual full blown black man) Is a total mindfuck. These types of perversions are usually thought to be for whites alone and blacks never delve into this world because they don’t have to. So Davecat may be the least scary guy shown on “Guys and Dolls” (That HAD to be the Real Doll repairman, HANDS DOWN), but not many other blacks, if any, could approach his creep factor, so his space on this list is well deserved.


JD: Iron Mike was introduced to a whole generation of white kids through the Punch Out Nintendo game in which his pixel self would fuck up the racist representation of the typical white dude who played Nintendo. Once that game hit big every ethnic group came out to bitch about how racist their video game characters were: Soda Popinski, Tamon Honda, King Hippo, Don Flamingo, etc. But fuck that, Lil Mac was a dumpy white guy wearing baggy shorts looking like he has been tainted by living under florescent lights his whole life. He was Rocky's retarded cousin that represented not only the white man in the boxing world, but in athletics in general.But I digress....I was one of those burb kids that was lucky enough to grow up with HBO and cousins with PPV boxes, so I caught a mess of the early Tyson fights. It wasn't his ring personna that frightened me, it was more his story. He was painted as a real-life Tasmanian Devil that was tamed by a kindly, old white man that still had these off the chart levels of hate inside of him, but would harness it as much as possible until he got in the ring. He was scary because that gutter, ill shit was inside of him, and I think he held it together relatively well.Then that shit went down with the raping and Robin Givens divorcing him saying he abused her. And Mike started his slow decline downhill ending in the Buster Douglas fight.Now Tyson is scarier than ever. He has culminated a laundry list of shit he has done to scare the shit out of the common Little Macs of the world. He is now medicated by whatever the fuck he is taking that keeps him sedated enough not to actually eat babies and kill white, female reporters when they ask him a question.But the one thing that makes him qualify for the scary black dude now is how he could have went down as one of the greatest heavyweight boxers ever, but blew that shit when his own internal scary black dude started to creep out and make the whole world Little Mac's.

TB: I remember when “Iron” Mike Tyson fought "Hurricane" Peter McNeeley. Johnny Gill sang the National Anthem. This was during his “Rub You The Right Way” fame and with CL on the rappity and Teddy on the production tip, that was a New Jack Swing classic. And I was a total New Jack Swing pussy and I wore polka dots and did dance routines for talent shows at my high school. This was when dancing was more accepted but in retrospect, no less full of faggotry than Chris Brown or Souljah Boy. I have a video of me and my boyz doin' a routine to Toni! Toni! Toné!’s “Feels Good” (I’m telling you, me and that New Jack sound were tiiiiiiight). What is horrifying besides the black Bugle Boy mock turtleneck with gold rayon pants I was rockin was the fact that I was so pleased with myself. So, Mr. Gill sang for 2 minutes and then Mr. Tyson totally knocked a heavy weight contender out in a little less than ¾ the time it took the homosexually rumored and final member of New Edition to sing, “The Star Spangled Banner.”The next day every fat, douchey fuck-not was like, “I’d spend 89 seconds in the ring with Tyson for $500,000!” Which was a lie and they would more than likely have had an accident (that’s what me and my 5 year olds call pissing or shitting yourself) and ran out of the ring. I didn’t even think the Tyson impersonations were funny, such was the depth of my fear of him. I was scared of his 8-bit visage on Nintendo. I didn’t make eye contact with posters of him. The dude was a machine of death and his fists were essentially big rocks with skin on them. He would fight you in the ring. He would fight you outside. He beat up models. He was a Muslim which, if you didn’t already know, is the religion that hates all Americans but specifically, white people.


JP: Let me be truthful for a moment. It took me a couple minutes to find out this dude’s name because I originally Googled “Leathery Black.” I remember looking at some Three 6 Mafia thing that belonged to my friend Satan J, and when told me his name was Crunchy Black I laughed and laughed and laughed. Ever since, whenever the dude crawls into my nightmares with his knifed fingers, Dream Jay Pud calls him Leathery Black. Such different adjectives, leathery and crunchy, yet both of them so oddly appropriate. Either way, he looks like Freddy Krueger, and if it weren’t for the show that the other Three 6 Mafia guys had on MTV I would still be scared of them as a whole. As it turns out, they are just a bunch of fun loving dudes. Not Leathery Black, though.
“Yo Crunch, you wanna be on our new fun-loving MTV show where we teach white people how to make hot sauce potato chips?” asked Juicy J. He smelled something sour in the air: burning flesh, forged steel, death. He was suddenly nervous and began to sweat despite the freeze coming from the supermarket’s open meat freezer. Crunchy Black was always ominous, that was just his constitution, but now… now he seemed cold and miles away. Juicy looked at DJ Paul and saw that, where normally rested a steadfast smile that lit up the world like a thousand precious stars and diamonds stuffed into an ever-open dice bag, was now a heartbroken frown.Why did you invite him? thought DJ Paul as he adjusted his sunglasses so the horror in his eyes would not betray him to Crunch. He’ll kill us in our Goddamned sleep, you fool. He looked over to Juicy J and sighed, then turned to face the back of Crunchy Black’s head.
“Hehe. Yeah. I mean, it’ll probably be stupid, you know, with all of those white people in Hollywood trying to get a piece of you and whatnot, but I mean, yeah, why don’t you? I mean, Project Pat and Computer are coming, so…
”“Shhh,” said Crunchy Black as he looked over his shoulder, his reflection dancing in Paul’s shades.
“It’s okay. I’ll see you in your dreams.” DJ Paul felt Crunchy’s dark eyes invade his sunglasses, as if they were mere reading spectacles. See you in your dreams? What did it all mean?
"Haha. Yeah, in my dreams," he said in a wavering voice. Then, under his breath, "My dreams in Hell."
"What was that?" snarled Crunch.
"Uhhh, I was just, I said..."
"He said 'Sleep well'," said Juicy J, flying to the rescue in a baggy sweatsuit.
"Yes...sleep well," responded Crunch.

And you guys get where I am going with this. Crunchy Black crashes the hot tub party that Juicy J and DJ Paul collectively share every night in their dual-dream and stabs Computer and Project Pat with his knife fingers. Juicy figures out that they could pull Crunchy into the real world and kill him there because when they wake he’s still holding a red party cup full of blue martini. And eventually they kill Crunchy Black…for now…

RM: I really like having Jay Pud contributing because usually I’m the one that writes something completely retarded that no one else understands. I have always liked Crunchy Black, not for anything he’s done, but because he is one dark ass and ugly motherfucker. Like, his eyes glow in the dark and shit. And when you see some dude so fucking butt ass ugly, it’s always great to see them pimping some fresh ass clothes. Makes me proud to be a southerner, because it seems it’s mostly southerners that get by with being ugly fuckers in some sweet threads, helping them get pussy juice on their mustache hairs.


MD: It's weird how this shit was on the news for hours at a time while it was going on then once they caught him (or them, to be exact) you hardly ever heard about it again. It's like some fucked up kind of reverse racism where the media was just like "Oh, its just a black guy. There's no way we could squeeze a story about him being molested by his parents out of this. Fuck it." I understand that once you catch a dude, there are only so many stories the media can come up with that would make national news, but we had to hear about fucking Timothy Mcveigh, A WHITE MAN, for years after he did his dumb shit, and that was nowhere near as gully as ascending rooftops and strategically killing innocent bystanders for three weeks.
I did some internetting before writing this just to make sure that I wasn't in a coma after the DC Sniper capture and that there wasn't some blockbuster movie starring Don Cheadle as the DC Sniper that I somehow missed, but all it got was a shitty made for TV movie, a lame book and a half assed documentary, and most recently, an episode of American Gangster.
It's pretty nuts to just go up on buildings and start shooting people in the middle of all this OPERATION AMERICA HOMELAND SECURITY WE ARE WATCHING YOU AND EVERY MOVE YOU MAKE bullshit. It's not like it's the 70's where people didn't really sweat killing some innocents because they only had to worry about some kind of Barney Miller types coming after them with their fucking giant mustaches and jewfros. The DC Sniper had the armed forces after him as if he were Godzilla.
It turns out he had this big fucked up plan that started with snipering a bunch of folks, then taking out a shitload of police officers with home made bombs, then extorting millions of dollars from the government which he would use to make his way up north recruiting young black hopeless folks to his cause along the way (His first disciple was arrested along with him).
That's why I'm so flabbergasted that thiswhole ordeal has been neatly swept under the rug, and it only happened a few years ago. There's still Son of Sam and Zodiac Killer movies coming out and shit, and that whole thing is ancient history. The only thing I can seriously think of is that the media is still keeping the black man down, even if they do some dastardly shit.

TB: I remember when the Beltway Sniper was the big story and everyone was scared to drive on the highway. It happened in Florida too, when I lived there, but the people shooting had the decency to target rentals which were either tourists which tended to litter and/or be fat or someone that couldn’t afford their own car and they are not a really fundamental part of any society anyway. But the D.C. Sniper is killing all these people and I’m in the midst of finishing my college career and as I leave an Abnormal Psych class I hear this dude talking to this chick.“You know he’s got to be white. Serial killers are always white. Black folk just aren’t that crazy”And the chick laughs and the dude, who’s gay and white, feels that he has convinced this chick, who is black, but really only half black, that some white people are alright and maybe, just maybe there is hope for the races to finally get along. I wanted to tickle his Medulla with my Bic at this point but I felt that would have lent credence to his argument so I let him walk.


JP: I suppose I can understand why I am supposed to find OJ Simpson scary. He’s apt to get all coked up and kill a bitch, or take his motherfucking shit back. I’m not scared, though. If some dude was fucking my ex-wife who I still loved there is a strong possibility that I would choke the motherfucker to death and maybe stab him in the face while I was at it. And, so, maybe he got a little carried away and killed a bitch, too. Say what you want about the institution of marriage, but the emotional stakes can run pretty high. What dude never got jealous when an ex-girlfriend, not wife…girlfriend, fucked the first dude after him. I have: fucking miserably jealous. Also, if someone took my Heisman trophy, they wouldn’t have walked out of that room to testify. Fuck that. Homeboy rushed for over 2000 yards in one season; that counts for something in my book. OJ is not scary… he just doesn’t take no shit from nobody, that’s all. No shit from nobody. On a side note, when white people got their revenge on OJ by finding him guilty for taking his motherfucking shit back, my wife’s grandmother stated how it was all crap and that she never thought he was guilty of murdering those people. She said that his ex-wife and friend were murdered by drug dealers. Why is it always drug dealers’ fault? I’ve known a million “drug dealers” and they were always relatively harmless beyond their wigger/hippy/white trash/ scary black dude veneers.

TB: My wife used to fuck around with some Patriots and Celtics players. So now, enjoying any sort of local sporting event results in me wondering if my wife ever fucked one of the people on the field or court. It was her past. I get it. I fucked some losers in my day in the name of research so I’m not without fault either. The problem is, I get a little insecure about my penis size when measured up to Lawyer Milloy’s or Ricky Davis’. They both have hogs legs by the way while my penis is pale and little. Luckily, we were friends first, so she told me all of this shit and now I can hold it against her. So O.J. is that dude fucking my wife in the hypothetical past. And I am scared because he kills white people a lot and looks all nice on 1st & Ten and that show had boobs on it and I was like 14 and every time I thought of boobs I thought of O.J. and vice versa but never of licking his darkened areola. And then he did the Police Squad thing. So now he’s boobs and the funny. I’d trust him with my girl. But then he would kill me. And that would make me less trustful the next time around.


MD: Over the years, the WWF/E has tried several different iterations of the Scary Black Guy gimmick to varying degrees of success. Bad News Brown was one of the earliest and definitely the best. Now I may not have been literally scared of his Scary Black Guy character, but I give him respect for the mastery of the gimmick. There is the legend of Bad News punking out Andre the Giant like a bitch in Japan though, so it's not like he was a total wimp outside of the character.
Bad News came to the WWF smack in the middle of their cartoon era where every wrestler had a ridiculous comic gimmick and insanely muscular body. He immediately stuck out for being an imposing black dude with a slightly better than average build that wore simple black boots and wrestler panties to the ring. His only mission and character motivation was to scare the shit out of white people. He was so bad, he hated the bad guys he would sometimes be forced to team up with. His gimmick was so realistic and believable because it was so simple. It's why you actually believed he could maybe beat Hulk Hogan, because there was always that chance he would pull a knife out and stab him or some other grimy shit. He even made his crappy finisher (A lame Savate Kick called "THE GHETTOBLASTER") seem imposing.
The reason I think Bad News made the mold and immediately broke it as far as scary black guys in wrestling go (There's also New Jack, but he is possibly a legit scary black guy and not an actual well mannered judo champion just playing a character for a paycheck, so it's a whole different thing) is because of RACISM. A similar no frills gimmick today would be considered too racist. It's why the WWE's current Scary Black Guy gimmick, Cryme Tyme more resemble The Bushwackers than it does Bad News Brown. You cannot have legit Scary Black Guys on mainstream television scaring the shit out of little retarded white children in the audience without someone getting all up in arms about it. White people want peace on earth and unity and equal rights but they never ever want to be reminded that there's still scary black guys out there that want to fuck their wife in the ass and maybe watch some Sanford and Son afterwards. It is too painful to the white psyche.

9. DMX

MD: If you ask any average white guy what he imagines a Scary Black Guy to be, you'll get close to the same answer every time. It will be some kind of drug dealer/rapper hybrid who lives on the wrong side of the tracks of a dangerous city and most likely owns a gun illegally and will kill you for looking at him sideways or at least steal your wallet. It's the same shit if you ask a black guy what a Scary White Guy is: Some devil worshiping redneck serial killer who eats babies and listens to death metal. These are stereotypes both races can live comfortably with.
That's why DMX remains on my very short list of Scary Black Guy rappers. The mainstream acceptance of rap music has totally ruined the Scary Black Guy image within the boundaries of the hip hop universe. Now every other rapper that previously lived by his scary thug image has a new reality show or an acting career or a new ice cream parlor opening up very soon. Yet they still try and portray the Scary Black Guy image ON WAX and it just doesn't work.
When DMX was blowing up, I read an article on him in The Source about his childhood. Now I don't know how much of it was 100% true because sometimes I think The Source is like the rap equivalent of Pro Wrestling Illustrated, but according to The Source, DMX grew up in Yonkers or some other shit town right outside of New York City. For those not familiar, all of those towns "right outside of New York City" are like Hell on Earth, outside of a handful of places like Westchester and perhaps White Plains. They are just these dirty brown gray towns where everyone stays poor and angry because they are in such close proximity to NYC and they have to pay NYC prices for shit without the NYC experience of visiting Times Square and climbing the Statue of Liberty and what not.
So yeah, DMX grew up in Yonkers or wherever, and unlike most rappers, he didn't roll with a crew of drug dealing rappers and he wasn't the baddest dude in school. He was a weird kid no one liked who was possibly adopted or raised by his blind grandma or some other sad sack story and his only friends were dogs. He grew up hating the world and became a famous rapper by some dumb luck.After becoming famous, he still hated most people and got an entire backpiece of a dog that looks like it was drawn by a 6th grader tattooed on his back, because the dog was the only thing he loved in life, besides God. He refused to make clean versions of any of his songs or even take out the cusses from TV performances. He sold bajillions of records and made music that was the rap equivalent of thrash metal as far as hyping up folks to commit violence goes and still looked like he only showered occasionally.
At the peak of his fame, I wasn't THAT afraid of DMX. Despite the thrash metal comparison, his music still sounded pretty polished. What pushed it over the top for me was when MTV was in the early stages of becoming a 24/7 reality programming channel, they aired some embryonic version of True Life where they followed DMX around for a day. Not only did it expose (to me at least) that DMX was at least slightly crazy, but there was a scene where he more or less FLIPS THE FUCK OUT in his car because someone cut him off on the highway. It was a very real scene that stuck with me for a while.
Now every other week DMX is in the news for some crazy shit and it's obvious even to me that he's a paranoid schizophrenic who is definitely not on any medication, but being a paranoid schizophrenic is a stereotypical Scary White Guy trait so everyone just says he's been smoking too much crack. Until he finally kills someone or at least fucks someone up real bad, everyone will still be like "Oh that wacky DMX, doing crazy man things because he smoked too much crack!! ha ha!", but DMX has legit Scary White Guy problems trapped inside of his Scary Black Guy body, so I advise everyone to stop talking shit about DMX before he eats your baby.

KM: You know what trips me out about DMX? "Slippin" is edited on the album. He curses in the song, but bleeps it.
I know it exists, but why the fuck would a dude whose bread and butter is being a loud, abrasive gangsta bother to bleep a song on an album that has "It's All Good" on it? That would be like, well, Chamillionaire saying he's done cursing on wax and then having a bunch of dudes guest spot on his album only to bleep them afterward. THAT IS FUCKING DUMB. The whole GRRRR ARF ARF RIDE OR DIE FOR 11 SONGS BUT WAIT WAIT WAIT now we are going to talk about how Jesus Saves at Costco schtick always annoyed me in the first place. If you are a real gangsta and you make money in that field, as well as by bragging about your exploits in that field, slapping a sappy apology at the end doesn't make it okay. It's like adding (Don't Do 'Em) at the end of White Lines. Am I afraid of DMX? He's fucking not sane, so I would beware and I for damn sure would think twice about ride shotgun with him anywhere. Even to the grocery store.


"Danny" by John Dawson
JD: I think I am at a point in my life where the scary black dude on TV is so far fetched from where I live and will probably die that it doesn't faze me that much. I would like to go the real life route with the scary black dude and talk about this kid named Danny. As is my rep around these parts, I have hung with a black dude or two back in the day, even lived, partied, and been to their homes to chill with their families. The black dudes I hung with were far from scary, they were more the flossin type dudes wearing fancy clothes and driving nice cars that didn't grow up IN Philly, but outside of it. Danny hung with these dudes as their "muscle" so to speak.
Danny was about 5'7" 200 lbs of all muscle. He looked like a He Man doll come to life. He participated in body building competetitions and bounced at a bar in Reading, PA as well as at various house parties in our college town. Outside of his physical appearance, what made him scary was how he became after he drank/did drugs.
When this guy had any substance enter his blood stream he turned into this BiPolar animal. He could cry with his head in your lap or sit next to you and straight ice grill you until you got freaked and had to make an excuse to get up. Then Danny started to get into taking Acid. I would see him around campus and legend of the stuff he would do would spread like you bagged Bigfoot. "Danny was in the cafeteria swiping cards", "Danny hopped in a pizza delivery guy's car", or "Danny punched some girl in the face" would be some of the shit we heard of and/or saw. But my personal experience with him happened over winter break. We had no weed due to the Blizzard of 95, but had Acid. So one afternoon we took acid and drank cheap gin mixed with Shasta and played Madden 95 all night. Instead of attempting to crash, Danny left our house. Feeling both scared and relieved he left, we tried to go to bed, but Danny had no plans for bed. He came back to our place and was found by my roomate standing in our darkened living room. We all came out to try to coax him to leave and Danny pulled a duct-taped gun from his pocket and started to wave it around the room. Listen, I am a white guy who grew up in a middle-class town, and I never had shit to do with a gun. Now, this He Man with LSD pumping through his veins was swinging around a gun a foot away from me. His friends woke up from Danny's screaming and tried to soothe him with a beer. Danny took a 40 bottle and smashed it in his hands leaving blood all over the duct-taped gun handle. It is funny because to this day, I don't remember how we got Danny out of our house. Maybe it is some psychological thing to supress it because I blew him or some other shit? But whatever it was, it forever cemented Danny as the scariest black dude ever.

"Big John" by Tree Beats
TB: During the early 90’s I started my decade long college career at a lovely little liberal arts college named Eckerd because of the chunk of change bestowed upon it by said family. After 3 semesters, I realized my calling was to be a rapper and make beautiful music and then essentially fail at it and, in turn write about it in my old age. When I was living in St Petersburg and doing rappity things like eternal ciphers, (that’s what we called a freestyle session. We also said things like “overstand” and talked incessantly about 3rd eyes) and buying records and smoking bidis and taking ourselves far too seriously, I lived with this dude who sold weed (weight not sacks) and one of his main customers was this dude Big John. There was no “little” John to Big John. He was simply a 6 and a half foot mass of muscles and black rage placed in Tampa Bay to freak people the fuck out.. He had been in an accident with an ambulance a year before I had met him and had lost 75 pounds because of it. I decided that he must have looked like Tetsuo when he started losing control in the stadium at the end of Akira. So anyway, when you sell drugs in bulk, people come into your spot to buy and it’s not the pay and grab of street deals but rather a blunt or a spliff is rolled and then you sit and smoke and chat and money is counted and recounted because your too high to count more than 6 bills in a row. So that’s how I met John. Big John. During one such transaction he was discussing some vampire book he was reading and offered that if he had to kill his first born son to become a vampire he would have no problem doing it. He was just stating a fact. It was something he had seriously considered and he was willing to do if it ever came up. He also went through 3 rear car windows in the couple of years that I knew him because he would lock his keys in the car and then punch the window out to break in. He didn’t use a brick or a rock or even his elbow or foot. He would just uppercut the window and get in. Another time I was riding with him to a show, he had some Escort or tiny shitty car which he filled completely, and some dude got in front of him. For some reason this pissed him off and he drove along side of the guy and started shouting at him. So we’re racing with this guy in a 35 mph road doing about 60 or 70 and he’s not looking at the road and is just shouting at this guy telling him he was going to kill him. I forget how that ended but every time we would hang out he would either get into a fight or get close to one. He lived with his mom, who was bedridden I believe and he would always shout to his mom and she would shout back but I never saw her. It was like some sitcom but without the laugh track and it never ended. I often wonder what became of Big John but I can’t remember his last name. I like to think he settled down and possibly found Jesus.

"TJ" by Jay Pud
JP: Back in high school scary black dudes used to always want to kick my ass. I was super pale, blonde (or manic panicked), skinny, and maybe a little too awesome for most people to handle. So, I played freshman football. We used to have this drill where one person would carry the ball ten yards and the other person would wait to tackle him. The first time I did the drill I put a sweet spin move on the dude who was supposed to tackle me, and from that moment on everybody called me Princess Tickle Giggle.
Anyway, as Princess Tickle Giggle I was accepted by my teammates. I had a nickname, at least, even if they were calling me gay. It was a manly gay nickname, like when people name their monster car a woman’s name. I was like a manly gay monster car of the night, until one day when the freshman team had to practice with the JV team, and this scary black dude who looked like Tupac decided to hate on my awesomeness. He was a sophomore and starting halfback of the JV team. I played defensive line for some reason (I think the coaches liked to laugh and call me gay when I got knocked over, plus they said Polish jokes at me, which hurt because I am not Polish). The scary Tupac dude said that he was running a new play called “Shove the Ball Up Tickle Giggle’s Ass.” They snapped the ball. He took the hand off and ran the ball at me really hard and fast. I moved out of the way, on account of being scared, and he ran for a touch down.I consider it a personal victory because he never got the ball up my ass.

"Akon Savage" by Mike Dikk
MD: I went to the same High School as Jay and I remember the kid he is talking about. I sat behind him in the Slow Kids Math class. One time he turned around to have a heart to heart with me and said, "Hey man, I think you're cool, but the rest of your friends (mostly referring to Jay) are some goofy motherfuckers.". I'm not sure if he used the term goofy, but it was something similar. The only reason I point this out, is because it was a solid two years after the incident Jay mentioned (For the record, when me and Satan J. first met Jay we made fun of him for wearing a Megadeth shirt), so TJ's (The dude's name that Jay is apparently TOO AFRAID to mention) hatred for Jay ran long and deep I guess.
Coincidentally, my personal Scary Black Guy story involves mainly Jay and a kids name *I* am too afraid to mention, just in case he is the type to google himself. I will call him Akon Savage. His real last name WAS Savage, but I changed his first name.
Jay and I went to the same High School, but different K-8 schools. I grew up in the city of Bridgeport, which is predominantly black even though people not from CT assume there are no predominantly black areas of CT, but whatever. Akon was a grade or two ahead of me and at that point he was a quiet "gifted" kid. He was like some artistic genius and his teachers would make him go through to the lower grades and show off his art work, which you could tell he fucking hated doing by the awkward look on his face.
Once I moved to Stratford and got to High School, I realized a lot of the same violent Bridgeport kids I went to grade school with were being bussed in to Stratford High. Their parents would forge proof of residency in hopes of getting them into a better school system, but all it really did was make Stratford High a slightly less shitty school than the warzone Bridgeport High Schools.
After a while, I noticed Akon around, and I was never actual friends with him and thought nothing of it. He was always quiet in grade school and I figured his parents just wanted to get him into an area where his artistry could blossom without the fear of getting shot or stabbed.Then, I believe my Junior year, Akon's senior year and Jay's Sophomore year, we were all in the same gym class. This was when I first witnessed Akon was like some sort of quiet violent maniac that could be set off over any small thing. The first time was in the locker room. We were all changing and Akon turned around from his locker and quietly said, "Who took my lock?" and no one answered. Then he said it a little louder, then a lot louder and then he started banging on the middle row of lockers until he finally knocked them completely over. Akon wasn't that big of a dude at all, so it was pure rage that I could only compare to Retard Strength or something. It was fucking amazing, and at that point I decided I would stay far, far away from Akon for the rest of my life.
Unfortunately, Jay wasn't in the locker room that day, and unfortunately for Jay, we ended up having (floor) hockey class with Akon one semester. Jay and I were fairly good at hockey. Definitely better than 80% of the class. We would play to our fullest, which would include solid checking and not backing down to some bullshit football player.
One day, Akon was on the other team and since I knew of Akon's secret rage, I stayed away from him and didn't eve try any funny stuff with him. Jay on the other hand, decided to play Akon hard, and I don't remember in great detail exactly what set him off. I think he had the puck, and Jay gave him a routine check, and Akon fucking EXPLODED. I have never been more scared for a human being than I was for Jay that day. Luckily, Akon didn't pummel Jay, but it took the gym coach and most of the class to hold him back and they eventually had to throw him into the storage room and lock the doors, and he stood in there for a good five minutes yelling and banging on the doors as hard as he could. After a while, I guess he calmed down and they let him out, but I remember they canceled hockey for the rest of the period and we all had to go and dress before they let him out. I am surprised Jay is still alive, and I'm sure Akon has either become some kind of crazy artist or he has murdered a few people or both.

“Albert” By Keenon
See, my family rolls deep. They have family that has family and so on. So when I go visit, I meet all kinds of people who are generally cool as shit, but it's always a new handful of people just because of how turnover works. You don't always run with the same people and if I only see you once a year, then your crew may shift. Anyway, we will call this one dude Albert (he is not fat, though) and he is an island dude. Skinny as me, drinks and smokes twice as much, and he is almost cartoonishly animated. I swear I have never laughed so hard nor had so much fun while being an irresponsible adult, just because Albert is crazy. My visits tend to coincide with his, and so do several birthdays, so we all get together and hit these reggae clubs all weekend. Anyway we get to this one spot that I'm only fond of because at 1AM they always sell this spicy-ass jerk chicken. I don't drink anymore so I don't do the random mating dance thing all that well so I just stand around and listen to the music with my spicy-ass jerk chicken. These clubs have all kinds of black people, and to your untrained cracker eyes it might be just a bunch of darkies, but there are clearly delineated differences. The island folks are normally there, and while they do have national pride, dudes from Trinidad usually get along with dudes from the Virgin Islands. Then there are normal black people. Then you get Haitians and other assorted Latin American black people. And then you have the Africans. I don't know if you know this, but fuck some drunk obnoxious Africans. They dress badly and they have bad breath and they want to talk about an inch from your face and when you can't understand them they get this snotty-ass attitude like I'm the motherfucker wandering into their village and can't speak the language. They grind all up on whoever, with little regard for anybody's opinion on the subject. They talk big shit. So we're at this reggae club with a bunch of my family (including Albert and a couple other VI dudes) and we're leaving, but these African motherfuckers start talking shit at Albert and one of my uncles. My uncle just happens to be a gargantuan dude who most people won't fuck with for fear of his reaction. But these weren't most people, they were a bunch of drunk, obnoxious, badly-dressed African motherfuckers and so they wanted to get buck in a bad way. Enter Albert. He is my size. Everyone we were with grabbed him, not because they were afraid of him getting beaten up, but rather because they didn't want him to fuck a bunch of dudes up and go to jail. We're leaving and he's very mad at himself because he left his knife at the house, he wanted to stab this one Franklin Ajaye looking motherfucker. I've been around people talking shit after a fight's already been broken up, and this was not that. I don't doubt for a second that Albert would've stuck that fat fuck and let him bleed out while he went back for some chicken. Thing is, I'm not scared of Albert! He's way too cool a motherfucker and I know that he's not an instigator. Just don't get in his face, fat nasty Africans!

“Kenny” By Raven Mack
I am tired, feel like masturbating to Conan O’Brien’s monologue, so I don’t feel like being too specific. Plus, I am like a drunk around a bonfire, except the internet is the bonfire, and I’ve probably told you this story before. Basically I played basketball on the mean streets of Richmond with some black dude, who invited himself to come by my house. I vaguely told him which direction I lived, but he found me, and he was armed with a bottle of tequila and a bag of weed. So we got fucked up as shit. This happened multiple times, but I am a warrior man and can throw down like vikings, except educated upon pussy-assed shit since I went to college. Kenny kept hanging (that was his name, Kenny) and I kept getting stoned and drunk with him. He had jailhouse tattoos and had done time in the Virginia State Penitentiary before they knocked it down (sending the rats to Oregon Hill across the street - the real rats not snitch rats, who hopefully got stitches instead). I took a shower one time and he came running in the bathroom to peek out the window, allegedly to look for a girl who was supposed to drop off a bag of weed. Seemed shady to me he’d run in, so I put on a towel and confronted him. He said he would hit me but I might kick his ass. Nothing more came of it. I moved to a new house, he sold weed for me since that was my job at the time and being a college student, the mark-up in ghetto neighborhood twenty bags was way better than selling stoner college kids half ounces. More breaking shit down, but way higher profit. We did good. He crashed at our house one time, came in my room to ask to sleep, I said yeah the couch bro, he said c’mon man there’s room in the bed for both of us, things got hectic, I kicked him out and shit. I’d still go by his house every now and then to say what’s up and steal pills out his bathroom. There was a friendship, even if he was sketchy, because we would watch football games on the porch at his mom’s house, taking a TV onto the porch with an extension cord, in a straight up shitty ass neighborhood. There was something that made me feel down to sit on a scary negro man’s porch watching football, drinking 40s and smoking blunts. Anyways, turns out Kenny was a serial rapist, raping both men and women. He got busted and went to jail again. Right before he got busted, when I had kind of figured out he was probably getting young naive dudes all fucked up and having his way with them sexually, I saw him one day carrying a boombox in a duffel bag, coming from church. He was playing KRS One and we talked about getting on a righteous path. It was a strange conversation, but I felt sorry for Kenny. But like I said, he ended up going to jail.
A few years later, when I lived in Oregon Hill and had just had my first baby, who was probably like one by this point, I was coming home from work in my Datsun with my dog Waylon in the passenger seat, ready to get home, get drunk, call Metalhead Dan, and take a piss off the back porch to piss off my yankee neighbors, when I saw what looked to be Kenny talking to some college dude. I busted a quick right, even though it was the wrong way, looped around, and came into the neighborhood from the other direction. There are a few people that I’m glad I interacted with for the experience and shit, but I don’t want them knowing me now that I have kids. Kenny’s one of them. And man, I was relating this whole ordeal to a dude I worked with a couple years back and he was like, “Man, think how much different your life would have been right now if you had gotten raped by another dude. And not even in jail.” I often think upon that and am thankful for who I am and who I ain’t.Wow, I sure took a long time to make a long story short. Like a drunk around the bonfire, as usual.