Life, love, hip hop, humor AND instructions on how to cook a bangin'-ass meal... all in one place. I put the words here, make what you want of them.

Thursday, October 27, 2016

True Story©... Trolling for entertainment

True Story©…

                Apparently, it has become a more obvious fact over the past 3.5ish years that I can be a bit of a nihilist.  I mean, like, MORE of a nihilist and somehow I am okay with that, like to the point where I have sharpened my ability to needle someone with the simplest of words without cursing or raising my voice, yet driving them to both.
My favorite place to do this – as observed by my brother and cousins – is on the comment threads under a third involved party’s FaceBook post.  That third party usually knows me well enough to know when I am being serious, silly  or just fucking with someone.  The fun part is when they lay back and let it happen.

                Anyway, True Story© time…
Scene 1:
One day back in the winter, I was in an especially Trolly mood and logged into my favorite place to snare a victm.  I scrolled and happened upon the post of a long-time female friend of mine who happens to have nice mammary glands and pictures prove it.  Frequently, the comments under said pictures are the romping grounds for thirsty fuckboys who often become aggressive when they think a different thirsty fuckboy is moving on titties he has claimed for himself.  She’s not responding to them, of course.
I respond with a well-placed subliminal to make anyone who is still getting notifications on her post aware that I know she sees their comments and isn’t going to respond to over thirst.  This works double time because while she does not respond to THEM, she responds to me.
…  three of the five of them ALSO respond to me, aggressively.  Apparently I am a bitch-ass-n**ga who isn’t getting any pussy and that is why I joke about (read: ‘hate on’) “real n**gas” who are.  Nothing to lose, I engage one of them to the point where he is LITERALLY offering to meet me and fight over some words on a webpage.

-Put a pin in that, it will be on the quiz-

Scene 2:
On another friend’s post about music, the conversation turns to Drake.  This, naturally, leads to “Drake makes music for…” and “Drake the kinda n**ga…” responses until someone comes in to defend him.  Now, it stands to reason that anyone defending Drake’s music to the point of Stannery might be about as hard as a bag of wet doughnuts, but this particular dude swings for the fences immediately.  Not only are we ONLY joking on Drake because we don’t know shit about music and he does, but the “accomplishments” of people in his circle nullifies any rebuttal we might be able to form.  Yeah, buddy with the fake Jordans takes it a step further when we kept right on going and NOW offers his services in a fistfight as well.  Keep in mind, that dude does NOT know me, doesn’t know what I am about or just what this situation could turn into.

                *Bingo*

Now I have two fuckboys, living in the cloak of “real n**gas” who want to fight me over a couple of pretty mundane-ass differences of opinions presented by someone sitting at the other end of an internets-connected electronic device.
Bear in mind, now, that the fact that they DO want to fight proves my point that they’re both insecure fuckboys, but never mind that.

                Anyway, I send each a message to their direct inbox “pull up then, pussy n**ga,” which naturally enrages the both of them into all-caps tirades demanding that all I need to do is name the spot and they will be there to ensure that my ass is kicked…
Simple…
First I stalked each of their pictures and noted that they were seemingly quite fond of their automobiles.
I then tell them that I don’t use my real picture on my profile “to keep my bitches out of my business,” and have them both to meet me at an out-of-the way park, describing to each that I would be pulling up in a whip matching the description of the other’s car.  Date and time were set, I backed up ALL the music, photos and video from my phone and set to the task of arriving to the park from a different angle than where I directed them to meet me with an empty phone set to video tape the forthcoming altercation, hopefully it would make it to WorldStar.
While BRILLIANT, this plan failed to account for the level of bravado and stupidity of a fuckboy in his feelings.  Apparently the Draking fuckboy was not as hard as he said he was and brought three enabler fuckboys with him to help him fight.  Meanwhile, Thirsty Thug fuckboy came alone and he WAS about them hands and a little more.  Draking fuckboy’s dude gets out the car first and gets knocked down in one punch.  Now he has to get involved, along with two friends.  They rush Thirsty Thug who (actually quite hilariously) handles the three of them until the first one gets around behind him.
At this point, I am watching from far enough away to not be noticed , haven’t even closed the car door and because of the surprise of a planned 4-on-1 fight, forgot to video ANY of this shit.
It was for the better, of course, that the car door was open and ready to go, because just as the 1-on-3 became a 4-on-one, I heard the words “awe shit, that n**ga got a GUN!” and I am no longer a spectator, but a motherfucking escapee.  When I made it home safely, taking the extra long way to shake off anyone who might have been following, I checked the news for any shootings in Hagan Stone park and blocked BOTH of them on FB.


                Needless to say, while I will still log in and troll people to my heart’s content, I have decided to stop short of the fight promotion part of the trolling business.
But still, they deserved that shit anyway!

Thursday, October 20, 2016

True Story©... And your damned hashtags

True Story©…

                My level of disdain for people who fake wittiness is beyond measure.  Also, sometimes I have a hard time maintaining my temper in response to such things.  With that in mind, I fucking HATE hashtags for the sake of hashtagging.  I understand the use of them for discussions on a topic on social media, like last night’s debate or MLB playoffs games.  But cramming a sentence preceded by a pound sign under a post with no spacing because you thought it was witty is enough to send me into a rage.  Seeing them on an email, text message or even a fucking t-shirt makes it even worse still.
                One day last year, I decided that I’d had enough after a rough morning on The BookFace.  I was off work and home, and several consecutive posts contained the worthless hashtagging scheme and I was pushed into action.
First, I spent one hour on Google, Wikipedia and everywhere those sites led me to learn who specifically it was who INVENTED the hashtag, then I set about the task of locating that person with the intentions of fucking assaulting them.  1:15pm, I had my information and was ready to be on my way.  Armed with a full tank of gas, no responsibilities until the next day and (of course) these hands, I was ready to hit the road and go whoop an ass or seven.
…  then my FUCKING car wouldn’t start.
                So here I am, ready to kick ass, knowing precisely who it was to be and why and I am done in by a selectively inanimate object that chose THIS day to become inanimate.  Instead of getting on the road to collect a body count over what nonsense their creation caused, I had to deal instead with a 300k+ mile Subaru doing what 300k+ cars do. 

Oh well, I will go get em next time.

Thursday, October 13, 2016

True Story©... I think I see where everyone has gotten it wrong before



True Story©…


Last Thursday, I told y’all I quit…

Wait, something else first.

Now don’t go telling anyone this, but “True Story©” isn’t always true. Dead ass, only one has been 95% true thus far. Anyway, I have spent the last 7+ days frustratedly explaining to people whose old asses should have fucking retired 6-10 years ago how to use a set of pretty simple-to-use softwares in exchange for plenty enough money to have decent credit and a mortgage that doesn’t know what a late fee looks like.


Fuck that… I didn’t quit my job, because Ava likes new shit as much as I do.

What I DID do, however, was plan.

My dude Jamal – a cat owner for most of the 15+ years we’ve been friends – got a dog last week. She is a Beagle from a rescue organization. What he had to shield from them was that he had bigger plans, including becoming the first proprietor of a Beagle fighting ring. They came to his house to make sure there were no signs of animal abuse or none of that (no Pitbulls or none of that shit), so I had to coach him to the right language.

Once those funny-smelling white women left his crib though, we had the plans laid out. Every Beagle owner in Greensboro willing to put their money where their mouth is will meet us on the north side to talk about it.

This is where my readers come in…

I need y’all to help us keep this thing moving. Beagles for this will only go on for so long, we will need to make this shit more interesting than an annoying-ass bark. Enter the concept of Pitbeagles. Jamal has a female Beagle. We can get her pregnant with a Pitbull’s puppy. If we can get one other person to agree to let their female Pitbull get pregnant with a Beagle’s litter, then breed the respective litters’ outcomes with one another, then mix one male from each litter with the original female from the previous, THEN just let them self-populate from there then we will have a sub-breed of dog that I have already named “PitBeagles.” No one would be the wiser about a dogfighting ring of clinically insane dogs inbred in my homeboy’s garage.


We will make a damned KILLING! Money made in a fucked up puppy mill will be made, plus gambling revenue from what the puppy mill creates. We can NOT lose!

Oh, and the first rule of fight club…

Thursday, October 6, 2016

True Story© - "I Quit"



True Story©…


I quit.


Yes, you read that right, I quit.
No more IT Specialist, no more Forum Administrator, no more Outreach Program, I am shitting on all three jobs to chase my dreams.
With a child, automobile maintenance, bills and a $74,000 mortgage balance in front of me, I quit. Starting Monday morning, I am going to be a rapper. I am going to be totally independent and sell to people outside of Wal Mart and various gas stations throughout the region, never mind the SIGNED artists I know who could put me right where I need to be. I want to do this shit organically.


Look, there is no need to tell me “… but Phlip, you can’t rap!” because that is a fact that has not bothered to stop basically any member of the XXL Magazine freshman class since that has been a thing. Just know that when I approach you outside of that Wal Mart, be prepared for me to tell you ANYTHING it will take to get that $4 out of you…


“yo, you like Nas, Jay-Z? Well I ‘m better than both of them, COMBINED even!”

“look, I am just out here trying to stay off these streets. I mean, I could be selling your son drugs or pimping your daughter. Shit, 2016 I could be pimping your SON!”

“Real hip hop, real hip hop fam. None of that corny commercial shit on the radio.”

“You look like you into something positive, well you would love my raps. All positivity, no cursing or violence or nothing.”

“I got that new trap shit, you know these beats is banging!”


Nothing will be sacred or mutually exclusive. If you ask to have a listen before making a purchase, I will SURELY get belligerent and attempt to fight you after calling you a “hater.” If you tell me you don’t carry cash, I will pull out the Square and tell you that I accept cards as well as PayPal. It will be as if I am a Jehova’s Witness out there not letting you escape me.


Now that I rap for a living, I can stop worrying about the possibility of random drug testing and the issue of untenable coworkers. I will be able to live a life of luxury, surrounded by expensive things and other dudes' women to my heart’s content. I will get more tattoos and diamonds and never have to do real work for the rest of my life.

Yeah, I can live with this quite well. I quit!