Pacific Grove, California (PNN)– As shifting weather patterns threaten to push more oil towards the shores of Mississippi, Alabama and Florida, efforts to cease the irresponsibly shed oil have become increasingly more desperate. It would almost seem as though BP has exhausted every practical idea conjured within its creative think tank–each as unsuccessful as the next. After the failure of the Diamond Saw (only cutting midway through the pipe before getting stuck), they’ve begun to backtrack to previous stratagem (giant sheers). Which, while producing a deeper incision in the pipeline, still provided equally useless results.
A recent press conference with BP’s CEO, Tony Hayward, shows the chief executive grievously crying out for the assistance of an unassuming California resident, Arthur Curry…or as most of us would recognize him, Aquaman.
Here’s a gift not to be scoffed at. The first Brown Co. song recorded in over two years, produced by LO (for L’Orange Productions). Featured on the album, Eternal.
In a recent interview for Maxim’s “Sexiest Rapping Muppet Enthusiasts” issue (or Wilmington Star News…one of the two) I was quoted as saying, “The food here [California] sucks.” This, coupled with several billion other such daggering comments in regards to Santa Cruz’s passionless cultural cuisine has stirred quite the uproar within the towns denizens. I’ve become the subject of much discontent amongst the locals, who are proud of the sandalwood grass-root sandwiches and sweetless teas they seemingly enjoy during their lunch breaks and intermitted acts of hippiness. Well, in an attempt to avoid further persecution, I’d like to extend an olive branch and a good, firm…GET A GRIP! Look Santa Cruz, California, and confused culinary consumers the world over, I dont care how florid and picturesque the plate looks, save that crap for your third grade coloring contest! That junk taste like olive oil and air. I need some food with some love on it. I need to be able to taste the sweat from a bountifully breasted black woman, who got two jobs and fourty-six grandkids, a house in South Carolina where dont nobody live except some dirty a** stray dogs and a former preacher turned alcoholic, a bathtub full of epsom salt and a cornbread recipe that’ll send Jesus himself to the Piggly Wiggly to shop for the paper plates to serve it on. If not, at least a restaurant where two-thirds of the menu is cooked in some type of animal fat. With that said, here’s a photo-journal of my favorite places to eat. (Taken during my trip to Wilmington, NC)
(Fun Fact: The picture of the BoJangles meal is merely a stock photo I found on the internet. When I did finally make it to BoJangles and received my order, I was so romantically engaged in the meal I had forgotten to capture the moment on camera.)
This is actually pretty motherfreakin’ dope. Its a t-shirt design by artist Glen Brogan. However, I dont think there’s enough big booty princesses in the Mushroom Kingdom that could convince me to wear it. I think, primarily, because it looks like an item that has the unfortunate destiny of decorating the sale racks at Hot Topic. That place has a way of fang-bangin’ the cultural antiquity out of things I thought were generally cool as a kid. I’d really hate to see that happen to such a dope piece of art. I’d definitely cop a print of this tho. As a matter of fact, I think I’s bouta go do some innanet searchin’ and see’s if’n I cant do just that. Peace!
You know her, right? C’mon, think about it. Yeah you do. Hmmm? Still nothing, huh? What a shame. I’ll give you a hint. She sang on my album…on a song about slavery…or, as it were, escaping slavery.
Not that being on my album is any credible mark of success, but, assuming you frequent my innanet amusings and recollect any of my works with Fatman & Tropical, at least you would recognize her name and voice. I mean, how do you allow yourself to be unfamiliar with such a high quality of paralyzing vocal talent? Still no, huh? *sigh* Either way, this is Shea Soul. She’s from Croydon (United Kingdom). She can sing…and she hella fine.
For most people, the noon hour signifies a joyous deliverance from the days jack-hammering vapidity. From the kids in school, to the energetically barren droves of adults in the workforce…even the homeless man down the street cant wait til the sundial on his refrigerator box says “Hey, homeless nigga! Its noon o’clock!“ The sun is out, birds be sangin’ …and you can leave whatever monotonous activity you were previously engaged in to go get some happy food. But not me. Nope. No happy food for Lil Neighborhood P. My lunch break is a perpetual sixty minutes of suck. Easily, it could be the opposite. All I ask is for sweet tea and a biscuit. But all this town offers me is organic tree scrotum and tortilla plates. So, instead of lunch today, I decided to write a poem. Dedicated to my lost lover. Because you truly never know what you got til its gone. This ones for you, Sweet Tianna Biscuit… Read more…
