SONG OF THE DAY: Tiro Al Blanco (kudzu'd)

Aging, economically comfortable punks are the new baby boomers. They are a scourge upon all aspects of culture, but they also have the self-identity that they are the progressives and good ones, I guess because they’re only comparing themselves to like their uncles or some shit. What families are these that had all the hippies who became more conservative, then the punks who launder familial wealth through boutique businesses or running a microbrewery, and generation after generation they think they’re the alternative quirky forces of change, while the same shit keeps happening over and over? Fuck y’all. I hate a goddamned punk over the age of 50. If you were a good punk, you’d be dead.

SONG OF THE DAY: Sitting in the Park (kudzu'd)

SITTING IN THE PARK IS NOT ALLOWED
LOUNGIN’ IS ILLEGAL
YOU MUST BE RUSHING AROUND
DOING UNNECESSARY SHIT CONSTANTLY
ENJOYING YOURSELF IS AGAINST THE LAW
KEEP RUNNING UNTIL YOU DIE
(THEN KINDLY GET THE FUCK OUT THE WAY)

SONG OF THE DAY: My Place, My Time

The world is feeling triflin’ today, so I’m just keeping it slow and easy, taking deep breaths, know that spring is right around the corner, and you can’t ever convince natural born haters to not hate. Their heart is clogged with unlounge. It must be miserable to be like that to be honest. But I got no time for empathy today, because y’all are stifling my vibes; so I’m sitting in the yard watching the clankyjangers spin. FYIFYFMF.

SONG OF THE DAY: RVA Follies

Having enjoyed my own RVA follies over the years, I enjoy this song. DJ Harrison is pretty great. Also lolol at 1990s gentrifiers who get mad about the RVA branding as having ruined Richmond and drawing in 2010s gentrifiers. It was all of y’all. The city was not cooler because cooler people were displacing poor people than the more normal people displacing poor people now. Relatedly, the "Jeff Davis Flea Market" is the absolute most perfect ending for anything Jeff Davis, a wonderful multicultural raggedy ass flea market where you can get piñatas and purple camouflage pants that would make the actual Jeff Davis roll over in his grave.

VNFVRL1NG 4N 3NDL3SS SCR0LL...

unfurling an endless scroll 
which further fogs our inner 
visions with false sureties 

SONG OF THE DAY: VAAV Social Club

I need an antisocial club. Fake ass people appropriated “hater” to apply to them when you’re not a hater, you just don’t tolerate or abide fake people’s bullshit. But fake people establish reality at a cultural level, both nationally and locally. They got access to the purse strings. So like I said, I need an antisocial club. Maybe I’d stop burning so many bridges.

SONG OF THE DAY: 365 Is My Number/The Message

I’m close to another 365 round the sun, and in fact my oldest sister (younger than me) hit that spot in the sky today. Always thankful for folks like us to have lived another full spiral through our little corner (which ain’t a corner) of the universe – each one should be celebrated instead of feared, because it means you have survived all sorts of shit, and still stand, like a human middle finger at all that which have had you done otherwise by now.

W0RK1NG CL4SS C0SPL4Y3RS L4CK...

working class cosplayers lack 
the metaphysical scar 
tissue that comes with shit life 

SONG OF THE DAY: Poor Loser

The rise of Artisanal Poverty in American culture over the past quarter century has been strange, where the children of affluence conceal themselves in the camouflage of struggle, only to end up buying houses cheaply in “bad” neighborhoods, after years of renting in same places, driving up the “value” of those locations collectively. The first sign of successful occupation is the small business bakery, in a corner store front that had either been abandoned for a while, or was a church, or some weird shit. But now it’s a bakery, with really delicious but expensive pastries and breads, and literally nothing else. Definitely pie. The boutique pie shop is a definite staple of the Artisanal Poverty movement. Many of the denizens still dress as if they’re street urchins from Birmingham (UK) in the decades after the Industrial Revolution, but most of them are college graduates, albeit struggling in the declining American Empire, thus often required to work service industry jobs while also “building” their own small businesses through the access to wealth they always had as foundational support. They make money, but also have a lot of bills, thus they’re always “broke”, usually because they have to access forms of wealth they’d rather not more often than they’d like to. And for many of them, used to seeing the previous generations accumulate wealth rather than barely hold even or actually dip into that wealth, it feels like they are broke somehow. They try to save money, only going to the pie shop or corner pastry spot a couple times a month, rather than every Tuesday afternoon like it used to be. They share the logins for streaming services with their close circle, so that they can still watch everything important without having to pay for it directly. Eventually, the original house in an old neighborhood loses its luster because everything got “too bougie” and gentrified for them, the earliest colonizers of a bad neighborhood. So they sell it, quietly, without calling a lot of attention to the move, because profiting off a neighborhood that they directly helped gentrify breaks the Artisanal Poverty aesthetics. Keep that on the down low, but they can roll the profits into paying their parents or grandparents back a little bit of money, to keep things kosher for the next time they have to lean on that wealth that will inevitably fall to them anyways. Plus, usually they got a little extra to roll into a new truck down payment for their construction business, which also helps validate the Artisanal Poverty vibes, because it’s like they are an old country music song, except they are wealthy, and hardly rural in cultural practice, despite what their location may have ever suggested. Artisanal Poverty’s clout levels have risen immensely in recent years, due to the expansion of memes, which have co-opted skillets (aka “frying pans” to most of them), pop country music of yesteryear, and pre-suburban imagery of rural America. Most of them don’t realize pop country has never been truly rural, in many many decades, and they are worshipping a past vision of American life that never actually existed in the first place, not unlike Trump supporters, just from a contrarian position. Dolly Parton is the patron saint of Artisanal Poverty, which is no diss to Dolly, because I play my “Jolene” 45 at 33 rpm at least a couple times a month still, though to be honest the shit I go to more often than not is the first Trio record. Artisanal Poverty loves Dolly Parton, and Reba McIntire too, but never has shit to say about Emmylou Harris, ever. Very telling. But Dolly’s visual aesthetics plus progressive attitudes towards sexuality makes her the patron saint of Artisanal Poverty. So if you find yourself walking through a strange city, and you’re going through a rough-looking neighborhood, so your media-ingrained anxieties start to rise, and you’re slipping into hyper-awareness fight-or-flight mode, but all of a sudden you see a small bakery shop, for some weird reason, with Dolly Parton blasting respectfully loud inside, fear not friend, you’re not in an actual poor neighborhood. It’s just an Artisanal Poverty zone, and you’re safe (as long as you or your parents’ credit rating is good enough). Try the organic apple fritters, and lose yourself in trying to decipher all the colorful expensive tattoos’ super-clever meaning!

SONG OF THE DAY: Sad Sad Songs

Wow, there are so many experts on Middle Eastern policy, and Afghanistan, and Lebanon, and really everything today. You all should learn the valuable lesson of Shutting The Fuck Up. US Imperialism and dogmatic conservative Islam neither benefit the average person struggling to survive. And if you think the late American Empire hellscape is bad here, please consider the fact we have it amazingly comfortable by Global Southern standards. So again, please practice Shutting The Fuck Up. Practice it daily, and often each day. It’s very beneficial to your environment, whether IRL or extremely online.

SONG OF THE DAY: Lost You

the wailing of the unheard 
herded through autotune filters 
fed back to the consumer masses 
as a tonic of faux understanding 
of what it means to struggle 
against the rising tide 
of economic-based white American pride 
which always allows the other side 
so long as you ascribe to the right mythology 

disinformation wants to be free 
so that it can fence me in these filter bubbles 
that fuck up my real world outlook 
plus 
them with blue checks by their names 
who have consumed it all from the 
urban wailing of the disaffected to the 
rural moaning of the dissatisfied 
who mistakenly think they understand it all 
because they’ve spent their lives consuming 
all these things from the comfort of safety nets 
make judgements based on their consumption of data 
which got filtered through their bubble from the beginning 

red pills and blue checks ain’t got shit to do 
with my simple goddamned stubborn but pure heart 
don’t know shit about my 
heart still beating anxiously fast 
because it’s nothing but hills to climb 
and you never know if that cop that just passed 
is gonna but a u-turn and start asking questions 
because you’ve been dirty since the day you were born 

for your information fuck y’all fake mother fuckers
for your information fuck y’all fake mother fuckers 
heartless bastards always thinking you know shit you don’t  

SONG OF THE DAY: Let The Dollar Circulate

metaphysical pyramids
built upon other people’s heads

you never even see much less

acknowledge – economic

liberation theory

is built upon social scientific fallacies

mythological meritocracies

and all these advertising psychologies

are actual neurology connected to biology

like mushroom tendrils beneath the surface

of what the fuck we think we know

hoping the transformations

we may or may not be seeing

continue spreading beneath the surface

and don’t get exposed to above ground

established political pesticides

which train the vine to grow along

the sides of brick institutions which

already existed – postcard picture perfect

becoming part of the establishment

and pretending reform happened

that feral growth was allowed to blossom

rather than transplanted into those

same old English gardens

like we’ve been doing for too

many centuries to keep making

marks on the wall about

MOTYOTD: Backlund vs. Snuka (June 28, 1982)

This is more of an FYI, because I'm moving more of my nonsense gibberish projects over to my patreon. $1 a month means you can see all that shit. If you don't want to see it, that's fine. I don't feel good about openly sharing shit online any more, because people are either horrible and looking to out you for anything on Earth, or everything is funneled through Yakubian algorithms. But I made this patreon post a public one, so you can read it whether you've signed up to support or not. But I encourage you to support my nonsense, because I've got a lot of it, and even though I won't be sharing it all here openly all the time any more, doesn't mean I won't be doing it still.

THE BACKLUND VS. SNUKA CAGE MATCH COMMENTARY

0FT3N T1M3S 1 W0ND3R H0W...

often times I wonder how

we all remain complacent

while trapped inside wasting lives

N3V3R F0RG3T B0Y GR33N W4S...

never forget Boy Green was

spared suffering this surface

Earth full of fake ass humans

twitter renga #0218

(last month's twitter renga @rojonekku, 

birth month renga) 

neither my father

nor my father's father made
it to age 50

I turn forty-five this month... 
challenging my destiny

neither my father
nor my father's father gave
up their worst demons

I've done what I can, but still
see failure demons swirling

"simplify the code"
said white work dude this morning; 
elder beech trees laughed

what Yakubian trickster
trapped me in this existence?

big-head scientists
in vast abundance, many
believe their own good

"one of the good ones" racialist
thinking, inverted backwards

the refrain remains
FUCK Y'ALL FAKE MOTHERFUCKERS - 
I see you lurking

propagating false world through
digital utopias

encourage children
to learn arson techniques,
to archive in ash

the cleansing power of fire - 
small big bang vaccinations

challenging human 
creature comfort through in real 
life trial by fire 

colonized minds too settled 
in psychological flaws

apocalyptic
balance for permaculture - 
nothing's permanent

from fertile rubble and ash
the next genesis begins

let all this false shit
go ahead and end; people
dwell too much on death

somebody gonna be left
to get it started again

if eighty percent
of all people died, shit man,
one billion's still left

it'd just be like a mass
extinction refresh button

mark another year
survived, which is better than
the alternative

lowering expectations
on a daily basis now

low expectations,
low libido, low ego,
low superego

low life lived - the only highs
I've known have been chemical

so little still gives
me warm blood flow excitement...
dull, mundane, slow death

life spent trying is wasted;
these devils are relentless

my firstborn turning
nineteen means I'm old as fuck;
she's still young, with dreams

letting my dreams die in peace,
not misplacing them on her

the balancing act
of teaching both realism
and optimism

sure, things are totally fucked...
but imagine what is next!

we are no more (or
less) doomed than ever before...
nothing's set in stone

the Earth's healing properties
been mostly ignored by us

even shit which is set
in stone can be smashed apart
when necessary

then little rubble pieces
can be thrown at devil eyes

old dirtgods throwing
stones towards predator drones
passing overhead

one day I'm gonna hit
one, and that fucker will crash

young dirtgods growing 
in the wake of wild ripples 
made by feral folks 

("dirtgods" is gender-neutral; 
call them they, better yet y'all)

one finger waving
passing other late model
beaters on back roads

saving my middle finger
for the system, forever

anti-government
nature - overthrow this one,
install a new one

fuck that one too; read some Frantz
Fanon ya motherfuckers

(already aware
of problematic nature
of "motherfucker")

(product of environment)
LIFE - A PROBLEMATIC FAVE

anyways, glad I'm
still alive, and not dead, though
do feel 'bout half-dead

I should be living harder
instead of hardly living

twitter renga #0118

(last month's twitter renga at @rojonekku 

ended up pretty amazing) 

the calendar's been
flipped, but nothing much has changed...
same desk, same dead end

the chance for fresh perspective
often lost in these too-deep ruts

"hope springs eternal
in the human breast" was not
writ in cold weather

winter is time of darkness - 
ascetic nihilism

last night in full moon,
the kettlebell handle was
ten degrees at best

still I swung it, stubbornly
wearing black basketball shorts

viking berserker
blood exists somewhere within
my genetic muck

raven mack dirtgod thought and 
memory winter workout

hung from Yggdrasil,
bloody Odin received runes,
"word to word to word"

same: I prefer heavily
fortified mead of poetry

all mythologies
have similar tales of how
poetry was born

heart-innate mythologies
truer than brain's mad science

heart thinks like elder
beech - silently seeing all,
knowing what makes sense

brain thinks like fence - attempting
to separate existence

borders should be crossed,
identities dismantled,
all colonies burned

archive this poison culture
in ash; let's begin again

post-colonial
theory five hundred level
class, taught by beech tree

getting my masters in no
gods, no masters (just dirtgod)

perpetrate dirtgod
meditations to deny
natural born trash

to the upright world, still trash -
lackluster human resource

too fuckin' cold to
care; too fuckin' old to try;
heart paralysis

cuddled under shitty quilts...
this world is too fuckin' much

counting off the days
until springtime, when I'll bloom
like fuckin' redbuds

I have faith in the purple
protocols of warm rebirth

Allah bumps mad Screw -
just look at redbud blossoms
and echinacea

la ilaha illallah
la ilaha illallah

worthlessness feelings
fought off with simple dhikr's
internal jihad

la ilaha illallah
la ilaha illallah

people got it all
figured out, in ways which feel
alien to me

is your happiness for real?
please friend, hydrocodone me

opioids and gods -
it's self-medication or
self-revelation

papaver somniferum's
smoky embrace perhaps both

opium access
limited but opioids
in great abundance

manufactured blooms of free
market capitalism

tired of pretending
progress still possible while
madness reigns supreme

fuck y'all fake motherfuckers
la ilaha illallah

the myth of progress -
simple-brained humanity's
Sisyphean stone

stubborn homo sapiens
still believing they own hype

knowing with the brain
is over-complicated process
of smashing apart

knowing with the heart easy
as fuck - sit there, check your self

humans ain't shit but
hoes & tricks... suck on these nuts
& lick on this dick

lol, not really y'all...
I'm selective with my dick

penis has no heart
nor brains - direct connect to
gut intuition

vagina I can't speak for
(wish more dudes would think like that)

Not All Men will help
you deconstruct and destroy
then rebuild from scraps

even those that appear to
be allies might be man-wolves

majority of
modern people - woman or 
man - is fake as fuck

constant public relations
device in hand doesn't help

always tell myself
"fuck y'all fake motherfuckers"
when walking through world

double middle fingers to
the mirror to keep self hyped

dusty ass bathroom
mirrors reflecting too damn
much sadness lately

can't wait for spring to unlock
redbud blossom raven mack

"hope is as hollow
as fear" said the poet,
quoting Tao Te Ching

thoughts of bamboo stalks growing
along both sides of a fence

moments not minutes
meditations as I sit
through morning meetings

my paycheck work is not my
real work - I am an artist

a Natural Born
Artist, regardless of lot
in life work assigned

a Natural Born Artist,
all eight directions, all day

a Natural Born
Artist can't be quantified,
needs not a co-sign

Natural Born Artists have
illegitimate nature

"what exactly is
your art?" a non-believing
gatekeeper might ask

"ev'rything motherfucker"
all eight directions, all day

save your poetry
for secretive submissions;
I blast mine like howls

assimilation is for
those who believe in system

last night, Saul Williams
said "fuck the beliefs" as they
are our minds' police

the internal jihad of
shooting cops inside your brain

Raven Mack Dirtgod
internal jihad - remain
at odds with gridlock

a Natural Born Artist
sowing fractal geospheres

shout out and love to
all Natural Born Artists
sowing y'all's wild seeds

fuck orders fuck submissions
fuck the beliefs which choke y'all

artists natural
born tend to feel like artists
natural forlorn

the legitimate world spins
upon a crooked axis

the mantra remains
FUCK Y'ALL FAKE MOTHERFUCKERS
'til covered with dirt

the fake own the so-called "real
world" in its small entirety

one day your power
grid will fail; the fog depends
on batteries' buzz

once the fog clears, we'll shine our
guillotines with devil blood

JJ Krupert Jan 2018 intro

(you are who the fuck you are, new year or not)

The ceremonial dumping of the old calendar box booklet and replacing it with a new one is a capitalist-hijacked metaphor for New Me (You) which usually is tied to weight loss gimmicks, gym memberships, probably a new jacket or some shit like that. But understand nothing is different, at least not any more than usual when you wake up the sun is on a different day than when you closed your eyes. There is no New You (Me) just because it’s a new four digit number at the end of your direct deposited paycheck (if you’re lucky… thoughts with the economically unstable in these trying times). But we like to pretend, and we pretend even harder now than ever before because this is The Era of Falseness. We have fake leaders using misinformation to fear-monger us, on all sides. Even the progressives are fucking scumfuck landlords Air BnBing cutesy fucking Airstream trailers to inherited wealth assholes who think unfiltered water is a blessing. Each one of us at our core has always been what we are, and the day to day infinitesimal changes compound that. We can break cycles and inherited traumas, but fuck, that’s hard work, and most of those who are privileged are lazy of spirit. And many of those with True Spirit Warrior status are so fucking predator droned at psychic level on constant basis that life is more about survival than thrival. But at our core we are who we are, and this Era of Falseness hijacks that into notions of the work being easy, or giving us false identities where a change in identity means we are completely entirely different person, without remembering our core is our core. (And ultimately I’d like to believe the core of being human is the same for all of us, and that in fact is connected to that primordial muck that all things come from, and of course after a sentence like that one must say la ilaha illallah).

Myself, I have come to a point where I contemplate where all my knives and machetes are. I am just about fucking done to be honest. My sanity has slipped to a dark place a couple times, and my patience for these fake motherfuckers is growing thin. The obvious fake motherfuckers (president, national politicians, billionaire class, techlords) set aside as a given, I grow tired of the localized fake motherfuckers, who attempt to launder their own complicity in how entirely fucked everything is utilizing the Lesser of Two Evil arguments, that they are not as bad as the aforementioned obvious fake motherfuckers. Guess what? Not being Donald Trump doesn’t make you a good person. Fuck you.

Anyways, class war hasn’t started yet, and due to my professional growth which has not been easy, I will likely be suspected of being a snitch and killed, but it is my hopes that I get to use all my blades thoroughly before this happens once United States societal collapse happens inevitably. And I’d be glad to be killed myself in the name of this shit system crumbling back into the Earth.

This month’s JJ Krupert listing of 13-most heavily played songs in recent commuter ipod rotation (complemented by heavy headphone listens hiding from the world’s horrible realities in my terribly cold bed, wishing to survive this current period of navigation towards some undefined future happiness) is dedicated to machetes, and kabar knives, and other assorted implements of sharp destruction, scattered everywhere, buried, hidden, stashed, tucked away, and waiting. At some point perhaps soon perhaps 37 years from now a fire will shine a light bright enough that this Era of Falseness will all of a sudden so obviously appear to be as false as it is, and those who survive or are able to focus their screen-strained eyes through the digital and opioid fogs will think, “lolol well fuck, why didn’t I see that already?” But they always did. You fake motherfuckers can’t ever get woke. (Also you don’t even read this but I am planting inside these cyber-fields anyways, in my 2018 geocities page of obscure nothing thoughts, and letting it ferment however it ferments. Meanwhile, I have almost perfected flash drive shanks… probably just need four or five days of above-40 weather out in the yard to figure it out. Once that’s done…

[HH3os] The Long.Run.the.R.A.P. trio

(2nd round match-up 6 of 9)

Was trying to sit in the backyard and listen to the crows, but then it started drizzling so I had to bring my ass in from my stank ass standing desk of four milk crates with pawn shop laptop up on top back in the house, which as usual is chaos of five-plus tornados swirling around, hopefully in the same direction a lot of times so that we not blowing each other over with emotional chaos. Just keep saying chaos and that’s what it is. Late capitalism post-traumatic stress new world disorder for all. Peace and love to you all, and I don’t say that in corny old hippie way; I say that in real talk belief we likely gonna be shooting each other in the face on this Earth in abundance in the next ten years. So peace and love. Look around immediate world (fuck the fear transmission that cause hopelessness), and do the best you can with that environment. Thinking beyond that will overwhelm a motherfucker.

Killer Mike – R.A.P. Music

(released May 15, 2012; #13 on 2012 Pitchfork Albums of the Year list)

HERE COMES THA HOT PITCHFORK:

Limiting himself to one producer, legends-only guest spots, and a real sense that he'd better make this one count, Killer Mike rises to the occasion. But while this record is sure to please longtime fans, it also works as a compelling introduction. As in the past, R.A.P. Music takes a stand politically without going off the grid into conspiracy theorizing or sounding so circumspect that you'd think Mike himself was running for public office.

Honestly I didn’t realize that this whole album was produced by El-P and some other cartoon dude until reading the Pitchfork review, so I guess I learned something. But guess what? You learn shit in public school too, but they still brainwashing your simple ass to become a human resource. This Killer Mike album is so good, and does stay true to his old shit while also being something you could play at a rooftop gentrified ppl’s party, and nobody would get mad. And yet somehow that shit feels like part of the problem too, like the fact fake motherfuckers think they’re somehow more real because they renovate a warehouse in a poor neighborhood, and don’t hate the poors though they also don’t interact with the poors, and eventually help cause more poors to be pushed (property taxes, increasing rents) off to whatever dilapidated suburbs are left behind by the good gentrifiers grandparents. FUCK Y’ALL FAKE MOTHERFUCKERS. Kinda wish along with shooting dirty cops, Killer Mike was shooting fake motherfuckers too. All too often in hip hop the realm of fake is defined by the realm of realness as established, so you can’t just roll through like New Brooklyn and shoot motherfuckers on fixies. But really, I’d enjoy that a lot, both in art, and in real life. Still though, for a fat southern dude who’s got a good martial set-up, a couple small businesses, and all the weed hook-ups he could want, Killer Mike remains about as revolutionary as fuck as you could be. Much love to that dude. SEVEN STARS (*******)!

A$AP Rocky – Long.Live.A$AP

(released January 15, 2013; #39 on 2013 Pitchfork Albums of the Year list)

Lolol, more like Bitchfork:

A$AP Rocky sounds natural in every setting; along with his command of rhythm and cadence, this is his greatest gift.

While this is true, I still firmly put Rocky’s masterful lane-riding skills to good coaching. Yams had him, and even Ferg tuned the fuck up. With A$AP Ferg, that’s even more obvious, because that dude really is not all that great. But Yams had him performing way above his combine scores. With Rocky, it’s hard to say – there might be touch of RG3 to Rocky. He was a blue-chip prospect, had the aura, the skills, and once he got hooked up to where he could be fucking super models in the bathroom at the Met Gala, kinda hard to stay hungry, you know? This tape has aspects of that, where the dark broody style is getting replaced by the fashion brand street brvh doing lines on the card access only floor of the Marriott fairly regularly. But props to Rocky for living the Amerikkkan Dream, and props to Yams for being the Puerto Rican Bill Belichick.

In terms of this album, no lie, each time I listen to it, I get more drawn in. I am in pretty hardcore don’t give a fuck mode lately, and this album most perfectly make beautiful hope of not giving a fuck, where you can absolutely not give a fuck about every fucking thing on Earth with the biggest smile on your face every morning, because the beneficial Universe has given another sunrise for you to put on something you feel fresh in, and go out there and not give the best fuck you can. NINE STARS (*********)!

Run the Jewels – Run the Jewels

(released June 26, 2013; #28 on 2013 Pitchfork Albums of the Year list)

Oh man, I know Run the Jewels as content clicker gonna create the hottest of Pitchfork takes:

The deepest messages of Run the Jewels are the ones dedicated to figuring out just how many ways there are to threaten bodily trauma in the most over-the-top language possible while not actually coming across like some screwfaced shock-value manchild. It feels as though the options of either catching a bad one or riding with them are easier to decide between because the latter sounds like it'd be a hell of a time anyways. And there's this sense of friendly, unspoken one-upsmanship between the two MCs that keeps upping the stakes.

Well, I don’t know about all that. I guess I’ve never really felt like El-P would shoot me, and honestly Mike seems so fucking nice I don’t think he’d shoot me as well. But rap music about shooting people for pretend is a strong and long historical sub-genre. But Run the Jewels is too Adult Swim-ready for me sometimes, and I love it, yes I really do, but I also feel uncomfortable about it because of the chump motherfuckers who love it. People will suggest this is unnecessarily contrarian to be that way, but to me, I consider it the hip hop version of “trimming the fat”. Run the Jewels is fat as fuck, but lame ass people swear by it, so unfortunately I have to trim the fat, just to keep people that would otherwise harsh my lounge from getting too close. Fuck y’all fake motherfuckers. Still though, solid SIX STARS (******)!

-->

THE WINNER: Perhaps Rocky winning this round is an act of contrarianism, but perhaps it is sign I really want him to advance so I have excuse to take my spirit formula and sit in the field with the headphones blasting this a couple more times. Fuck it, not even headphones, I’m pulling the yard speakers out the back of the shed for this. Might put some sand down in the horseshoe pits and call a few boys up and just shock and awe the bitch ass neighbors with confederate flags and shit. Fuck y’all fake motherfuckers, forever.