Rather see the above links in your inbox or feed reader?
Subscribe to our Links for hand-picked items from around the web
Town Meeting · by R.H.S.
This whole mess is not puppeteered. Get over it. Fact is, you’re a hos-a-ditty ballbreaker. Your bleached teeth and the porchswing that your baldheaded civil engineer dad carved out of an Alabama cypress can’t fool me. Don’t blame my stagger on some inverted subaltern gaze or ironized minstrel performance or what have you.
Fuck all that. There is some very real and very inexpensive champagne that’s dashing through my veins, screaming on me to do the evil that men do. Yeah my indulgence has helped this IKEA-sponsored yawn and sigh session move along, but hoe, know this: I never got a good drunk on for you, I was just massaging your tender little ego. This is the kind of bottle I usually give to my super for New Year’s, and that’s word to the true and living.
Asti is for my bitch, mi corazon and that’s it, because she doesn’t convene a press conference every time I play “Reign of the Tec.” Keep rolling your semi-precious genteel Fairfax eyes at me ‘til they get stuck and read TILT, broad. Yomi gets to share my Asti and about eight to twelve hours of my weeknight time because she’s down as fuck for whatever, knows who Piri Thomas is, and makes gushy flan for dessert. Moet tastes like piss, after all, but a certain Ms. Crawford told me that you already knew that, right?.
Fuck, Yomi was busy raising two delinquent parents in the Hoboken p-jects while you were ransacking the Short Hills Mall for your Jack-N-Jill cotillion dress. You’re a Liz Claibourne drenched killjoy. You eat quesadillas with the good silverware and listen to Aretha Franklin regularly. When Yomi calls me “boo” it talks like electric sex in Monaco; when you say it you’re a Juicy Sweatsuit and a pack of Marlboros away from a trailer trash Fotomat clerk.
Say what? Asti is for broke-ass-niggas you say? Does your frigid Denali pushing mother know you talk like that? Listen, jazzybelle, adulthood just isn’t what it used to be anymore. Me and my people did the right thing and became graduates and employees and righteous citizens and we thank your beloved hobo of a mystery god for that, really we do.
But half of the original crew self-selected out of the anticlimactic beer-n-cold cuts-at-thelodge celebration a decade before they were scheduled. And we’re still trying to find out why we should even blame them for giving up. I got nothing really. So yeah I’m a dog and a bastard for rapping on your picture window this late at night like a madman and demanding you listen to my slurred rants for old time’s sake. It doesn’t matter that I never promised not to, shit is just wrong.
What does matters is the friends that I’d kill for, by and large, are still cruising these mean backstreets on dreary weekend afternoons. Stratospheric high and barely giving a fuck; Junot Diaz would surely disapprove the way Sham and Truth risk felony indictment every time they leave the house.
Add up all the grad seminars, cultural festivals, baptisms, family picnics, and televised town meetings and still we cannot shoot the shit unless we’re up to this same ol’ nonsense. That’s what matters, not the car freshener hanging from the rear view mirror, or the wave caps, or the unlaced chuckers, or missed appointments, or chasing tennis skirts on school nights, or the Welch’s glassware.
I’m out, and this is the last time you’re ever gonna see this nigga. Go and call text my girl right now, blow my spot, see if I give a shit. This place is full of fucking alcoves and bodegas and dilapidated park benches and I can wallow in my high and then deal with the consequences later, shit I don’t even have to wake up ‘til 11:00am.
I’m gonna go back to my beat-up Chevy and blast some Akinyele while you wag your finger like Oprah on laudanum and tell me that I’m the screw-up son of nobodies with a linoleum kitchen floor and a porcelain cat in the den. I can’t hear you. I ain’t hearing you. It is what it is.
Comments for "Town Meeting"
R.H.S = the Hunter S. Thompson of rap blogging.
Gonzo porn and gonzo blogging are the future.
— Robbie May 1, 08:02 AM
Piri Thomas is one of the most slept on writers/poets of the 20th century, real tizzalk.
— Big Walt May 1, 11:53 AM
Would one of you regulars mind providing some context ?
— Ream_Team May 1, 02:38 PM
This is the blog version of crunk…
-
— Hank Essay May 1, 03:24 PM
I is literate now.
— JAW May 1, 04:19 PM
hank – if that’s the case i need to hear the crunk version of blogs.
rhs – keep up the good work.
— noz May 1, 05:54 PM
where can i get that gonzo porn yo?
— weezy c baby May 1, 07:37 PM
huh?
— Jaz May 1, 10:41 PM
A Crunk W.S Burroughs resurrection..
— wreck 9 May 2, 02:26 AM
This totally went over my noggin….anyone care to explain what the fuck this is all about?
— EnglandRepresent May 2, 03:47 AM
RHS, what town are you from? The reference to the Short Hills Mall got me curious.
— fresh May 2, 09:39 AM
Nahbutforealdoe, I wanna get it. Someone at least tell me who Asti and Yomi are. PLEASE?
— Ream_Team May 2, 03:10 PM
Worst Blogger EVER...FIRE THIS DUDE!!!!
— U Suck May 2, 09:18 PM
Ream Team and others … this is the last time I’ll do this outright, but peep http://www.ohword.com/blog/713/nappy-headed-hoes and you might figure it out.
— R.H.S. May 2, 09:21 PM
Good looks. Guess I’m not up on my bubbly game. Still don’t know who this is directed towards, but to her or him it must read like a blow torch. Nice work. I’d buy the memoirs.
— Ream-Team-Sheem-Deem May 2, 10:32 PM
Dope.
Especially:
“What does matters is the friends that I’d kill for, by and large, are still cruising these mean backstreets on dreary weekend afternoons. Stratospheric high and barely giving a fuck; Junot Diaz would surely disapprove the way Sham and Truth risk felony indictment every time they leave the house.
Add up all the grad seminars, cultural festivals, baptisms, family picnics, and televised town meetings and still we cannot shoot the shit unless we’re up to this same ol’ nonsense. That’s what matters, not the car freshener hanging from the rear view mirror, or the wave caps, or the unlaced chuckers, or missed appointments, or chasing tennis skirts on school nights, or the Welch’s glassware.”
— Joe Jan 18, 12:31 PM