Optimum Online/Cablevision - "Reggaeton Triple Play" Commercial

Before I let go... This ain't nothin new, but it bothers me more and more every time. I knew Reggaeton as genre-du-jour would fade pretty quckly, but damn... how Don Omar and Daddy Yankee have fallen. It seems like only yesterday I was giving half of Washington Heights my "gasolina." This bout some shameless shit. For those of you who don't speaka de spanny, let me translate: "You can call the haze dealer/ on his Boost Mobile./ [indiscernible. puta?] Save money for plantains." This one cuts to the chase in English. As if non-Latinos needed to be exposed to this. Maybe I shouldn't hold Optimum Online to such a high standard. This is, after all, the same company (Cablevision) that has run the Knicks into the pegboy of professional sports. I'd rather watch Ninja Warrior on my couch than a Knick game courtside. Oh, shit! They should put Nate Robinson in these commercials! Fuck a Sir Charge. Let Lil '50 holler at them bitchmade Verison niggas.

The Boondocks Catch-Up: Or Die Trying

Gotta love what we're working with on this second season of Black America's finest television program. "Soul Plane 2: The Blackjacking!" Wow. I'm just glad there's someone out there that hates the institution of "Soul Plane" as much as I do. What confuses me though, is how McGruder was able to convince the actual Soul Plane actors to contribute to his denouncement of their work. The 50 Cent was obviously fake, but hysterical. However, if those weren't Mo'nique, Snoop Dogg and Gary Anthony "Flame" Williams' real voices, they had some damn good impersonators. Actually, I don't think it'd be too difficult to get Gary Anthony Williams to engage in his own parody as he does phenomenal work week-in and week-out as the voice of Uncle Ruckus. I know how difficult is for black actors to find work, hence productions like "Soul Plane," "Snakes On A Plane," and any other film involving flying porch monkeys. So perhaps they all had a field negro chitlin break moment. Oh, you don't know what that is? Next time you're having a shitty day on your own respective plantation (office) and you can't do anything but laugh about how tight your neck shackle (collared shirt) is with your fellow slaves (co-workers), be sure to remember what I said. Keeping to the slavery parallel, I too have seen a "funny lynching." I'm sure you're wondering how I could witness such a horrific event and detract humor in any degree, but the bootleg of "Soul Plane" my aunt owned was a clear enough copy. This episode did a great job of outlining The Negro Movie Experience. I used to think the AMC 25 in Times Square was a free theater. You could always get in through the unattended staircase. The last time I went to the movie theater, I shit you not, there was a man right in front of me with a 10-piece from KFC. He even looked back and tried to sell a couple of pieces to my date and I. Of course, we declined. The nigga didn't have any extra crispy, so we weren't interested. "We got one bag of potato chips... Everybody take one chip..." This, of course, was at the Magic Johnson Theater on 125th Street in Harlem. Not that Mr. McGruder needs any of my humble assistance or advice, but they should have had Magic Johnson mumbling all over the screen. "...and we can do it in our own cum-mooom-mit-tee." For the record, bootlegging IS worse than murder. If you bootleg, how the hell can Magic Johnson afford all them pre-workout AZT cocktails? If we don't pay to see Soul Plane, we're killing everyone who engages in irresponsible, raw dog sex in every city they find themselves. I can't live with that kind of shit on my conscience. Can you? It doesn't hurt that I've purchased several bootlegs with everything Riley yelled prevalently ingrained in them. "Move, nigga. Sit down. You gay! Booooooo!" Alright. Gotta run. My aunt invited me over to watch her newly-acquired bootleg of "Madea's Baat Mitzvah." I hate Tyler Perry too, but I can't wait to see if Madea tries to cornmeal fry the gefilte fish.

How I Survived Super 9/11 Tuesday... Part One

Oh, my god. I did it! I survived Super 9/11 Tuesday! I think it's time for some T-shirts. After midnight had passed, and the stores were fully stocked with Kanye and 50’s new albums, I made sure to contact all of my family in the New York Area to make sure they were okay. Only my sister, Tameka Mexico-Barclays, who had just come home from Rikers’ Island on Monday, was adversely affected by the disaster. By the way, she said Foxy doesn’t ever come out of her house. See that. She aint shit without her Blackberry. So, here's the story. Much like during the whole Y2K shitfest, I gave little effort toward pre-apocalyptic preparation. While Mama Mexico ravaged her nearest Associated Supermarket for bottled water and canned goods, her lazy ant of a son, Ronnie, scoffed. That's right. I neglected her heartfelt advice. Of course, her old ho-ass let me know it too. "While you're sitting on your black ass listening to all that Illmatic, some of us are preparing for 9/11 times 11! Kanye's only gotten stronger, you know." She said in relative panic as I left her for some jerk chicken. On my way home from the Jamaican spot I noticed those blue barricades up and down Seventh Avenue. Since I don't talk to polices, I did the next best thing. I asked a crackhead for the lowedwn. "Oh yeah... these niggas out here talkin' 'bout Orange Alert. They posted out front all the record stores and the mixtape spots and shit. They ain't fuckin with the coke right now, so we good. Say, bruh. You got like fitty cent I could get?" From the mouth of the fiend the epiphany came. I felt like that little nigga in Transformers. Shit was going down and I was ass out in front of St. Nicholas projects talking to Gator from "Jungle Fever." I was used to Africans denying niggas up in yellow cabs, but I couldn't even get a gypsy to stop. As the buses weren't running, I had to hoof it. I had to get home before Kanye and 50 Cent kissed. There were ominous signals abound. The sky had gone dark, revealing a Tampax-red moon. Amadou's 24-Hour Socks, T-Shirts, Bootlegs & Phone Cards was closed. I knew I was fucked. I dropped my jerk chicken and ran like Regan was still president. I was too late. The corner drunk I give Miller Lite to lay dead in front of my building. I wouldn't have let his ass in if I were home, but it was still pretty fuckin sad. (I'm sayin, you give a nigga a tallboy and he get a little too familiar.) "Holy shit!" I thought. "All that biblical shit moms was spitting is true! Two homothugs kissing on TV-14 primetime DID initiate the beginning of the Seven Negro Plagues !" Willie Bobo dead on my porch meant that we were already up to the fourth plague! The check cashing places closed early and the Department of Social Services was closed until futher notice. That's one and two right there. Increased, unrelenting police presence was the third. Now, the melanin assault was beginning to strike us down by demographic! Fiends were the first to go. My dry-heaving in my own bathroom as opposed to lying face down in front of Rusty's was evidence that potheads weren't included in the subdivision. Cell phones weren't working, so I dashed to my room to call my mother on the landline. "Oh, baby. I'm so glad you're alright. The fiends already dead. So I'm glad you--" "Yes, mom. I'm alive and I don't fuck with the rock." I interrupted. "I'm sorry. I should have listened to you. Hip-hop is dead. You were prepared. I am a smartass. What should we do?" "Well... Next to go are the snappers, then the single mothers, and finally the bastard children." "Damn. We never had a chance." "Nope." she interjected "But there is one way to reverse the plague... and I think you're the only one who can." "Jesus, Mama." I sighed. "Alright. I'm listening." (TBC)