CELLFIE CERTIFIED is about indulging in the splendor of self; overindulgence even. Get y’all’s nasty ass minds out of the gutter. Anyway, in the spirit of overindulging in the splendor of oneself, Igh want to bring Cellfie Certified back and amp it up. I want to make it robust, extravagant, showy, in your face, extroverted…..shit epic! As such, I’m going to be featuring a very special young lady to me, my cousin Echo. Every day she blesses social media with her creativity in hair, fashion, and makeup. As a result, I feel she deserves a spotlight.
Just like some dudes are addicted to collecting sneakers, Echo is addicted to lipstick, mixing prints, swapping hairstyles & hair colors, and remixing outfits from Pinterest. A self-proclaimed “girlie girl”, for Echo, shopping isn’t a habit…it’s an art-form. With her signature pout and piercing gaze, she delights onlookers without having to be half-naked.
Here are a few of Echo’s looks that have had tongues wagging as of late. Who knows, you might mess around and get inspired to play in a little makeup yourself!
What the fuck do you have to do to get a fucking aspirin around here? Toss salad? Well bend over and give me a toothbrush and tongue-scraper for the rinse and repeat afterward for Pete’s sake!!! I demand a recount!!!!! Crack is wack!!!!! I did not have sexual relations with that woman…my dildo is still in my dishwasher you assholes!!!!! Give us free!!!!! My pussy is itching!!!!!! Gooney gooney goo goo!!!!!! The sky is falling!!!!! THE SKY IS FALLING!!!!! Papa don’t preach!!!!! I did it all for the nookie!!!!! We’re just ordinary people!!!!! Girls just wanna have fun!!!!! Oops I did it again!!!!! Pretty on FLEEK p-p-pretty on FLEEK!!! My Dougie!!!!! How you hatin from outside of the club and you can’t even get in? Don’t go chasing waterfalls!!!!! Dust yourself off and try again!!!!! No man can say no to this pussy!!!!! Well my nuts is halfway up my ass, other than that I’m perfect!!!!! I’m not adopted!!!!! I’m not Indian!!!!! It’s just a coincidence that I have a love of gambling and booze and a knack for catching syphilis!!!!! I feel good today, Silent Bob, we’re gonna make some money, then you know what we’re going to do? We’re gonna go to that party, we’re gonna get some pussy, and I’m gonna fuck this bitch, I’ll fuck this bitch, I’ll fuck ANYTHING THAT MOVES! Yo, what the fuck you lookin’ at? I’ll kick your fuckin’ ass! Shit yeah. Doesn’t that mother fucker owe me 10 bucks? You know, fuckin’ tonight, we’re gonna rip off this fucker’s head, and tear out his fuckin’ soul. Remind me if he tries to buy something, I’m gonna shit in the motherfucker’s bag. Hey, what’s up babes? What’s up, sluts? PUMPS IN A BUMP!!!!! Mmmbop, ba duba dop. Ba du bop, ba duba dop. Ba du bop, ba duba dop. Ba du, yeah. Mmmbop, ba duba dop. Ba du bop, ba du dop. Ba du bop, ba du dop. Ba du, yeah. See daddy. Sinners need love too!!!!! I love it when ya call me Big Poppa!!!!! Don’t pull the thang out unless you plan to bang!!!!! Nuck if you buck boy!!!!! Brake me off; show me what ya got; cuz I don’t want no one minute man!!!!! I!!!!! Want!!!!! Muscles!!!!! I like clipper ships!!!!! You might think I’m crazy, but I’m serious!!!!! GET IN MY BELLY!!!!! To the moon Alice!!!!! You wanna hit people with garbage cans!!!!! Momma always said life was like a box of chocolates!!!!!! Papa, don’t preach!!!!! I’m a genie in a bottle!!!!! You’ve gotta rub me the right way!!!!! Where have all the Cowboys gone? What if God was one of us? Just a slob like one of us? Just a stranger on the bus trying to find his way home? As if!!!! I’m not a slut!!!!! I’m not a slut!!!!! I ain’t no slut!!!!! I’m a Puerto Rican lady señor!!!!! Mind ya business that’s all!!!!! Mind ya business!!!!!!
This can’t be life. 83 shades of dumb as fuck it seems everyone I meet is. I throw up in my mouth at least twice a day. I’m convinced there’s an undercurrent of inbreeding that needs to be looked into. Everyone is almost tolerable, yet so insufferably off-putting all at one. I’d piss in their lemonade were I given the chance.
Anyway hello. Nice to meet you. Greeting. Salutations. I love blow jobs. Hakuna…matisyahu. My name is Tucker and yes I hate you already. My big toe probably smells like pussy and I’d fill out a mall survey for a pack of Twizzlers right now. I haven’t showered in three days unless you count my homeboy pouring all the half-empty beers on me while I was passed out under his fish tank after his last party.
Yes, there’s a good chance I’ve asked your mother to sit on my face –> and about 22% of the time I was joking. I’m constipated, but that hasn’t stopped my ass from belching the most horrid storm clouds your nose will probably ever shake hands with.
Let’s see. Did I mention that I jacked off in the punch? Yeah…that wasn’t just froth. That’s something I need to work on as well. Speaking of punch, will y’all be serving snacks like finger foods up in this bitch? I smoked a gordo doob on my way here and I think the munchies are reporting for duty.
Hey toots! Yeah you by the Kleenex. Be a doll and pass me a wad down here. I face planted in a plate of Miley Cyrus for breakfast this morning and my nose is starting to run uncontrollably. Thanks whore. I’ll tickle your bean in the back of my Buick after we are released if you’d like. Give me a head start and I’ll throw back a couple of shots and there’ll be a good chance I’ll suck the demons out of your womb as well.
Anyway, poverty, whoredom, and gambling addiction bring me here today. That coupled with a bad habit of exposing my genitals in front of surveillance cameras or stealing out of offering plates at almost every church in this conservative, little town. Fucked a few pastor’s wives too.
While I’m on the subject, I’ve got a trunk full of women’s heels, Gucci belts, DVDs, and Italian leather fanny packs going for the low low if any of you fucktards are interested. I might have a few waist trainers left too. I see a few bad built hoes among us.
But yeah I’m a fighter and a lover. I’ll beat that pussy up. I’m not opposed to prostituting myself. I like nice things. If anyone has a cigarette, I’d be happy to bum one off of you. But I think that’s my time.
Wait!! Before I sit down. Giving honor to God who is the head of my life. The Gospels, deacons, Epistles, and Sadducees. Go Thunder! Amen.
Moderator: Are you sure you’re here for speed dating sir?
Tucker: Oh my bad (whips out dick) any takers? I don’t mind the ones who spit, but I prefer the ones who gargle then swallow. Holla at ya boy!!!!
Seaux Igh suppose Igh should greet you all like Igh’m really hospitable and genuine about it, but fuck that. That’s not my ministry. Anyway, helleaux. Igh hope you brushed both your tongue and your gums today…..and Igh sure as fuck hope you flossed. Breath smelling like Mama Boo Boo’s Dr. Scholl’s pads and shit.
Anyway, it’s time for the Hunger Games you THOT throats (pun intended), seaux saddle up and gird your loins. Igh have neaux idea where this train is headed…..but my dick sure as fuck is enjoying flopping outside the window. #Yomp
OUTRAGE IN ACTION
President Obama and US Attorney General Holder: Secure justice for Mike Brown (PETITION)
What’s the muthafuckin’ deal consumers? Ah yes, Igh’ve replaced my usual sexually explicit (and derogatory) adjectives for all of you stumble bums who tune in for my weekly, sophisticated-ratchet musings because in this installment, Igh will be addressing how the glube tube (namely advertising) finger fucks the sense out of our brains until we are seaux aroused by the thirst for material goods, we’ll spend the money we were supposed to give that knock-kneed stripper who let us buy the Golden Ticket in the champagne room, but got pregnant off of the pre-cum from “just the tip” or our PSO bill money on bundles of Brazilian even though you haven’t permed your kitchen in well-over the life cycle of an earthworm. Seaux grab your snacks, your thinking caps, and a thesaurus for you basic math heauxz and let’s get the shit-talking poppin’!!!!!
We are living in a social media/reality television world in which every seemingly intelligent fuck feigns for the best of every fucking thing with the unhinged sense of entitlement that used to be the sole reserve of insane, Roman Emperors or members of the Billionaire Boys Club or the Royal Family or trust fund babies and ditsy, overly-bleached blonde socialites who’ve never heard of Dollar Tree. The more the consumer wants, the less satisfied the consumer feels. Happiness seems perpetually out of reach. Why? It exists at the cash register, but once the price tags are ripped off, the temporary elation is drained from our souls leaving a longing for another fix like a crack head who ran out of orange slices and is $3.18 short of being able to buy his next rock seaux she fishes a Chapstick out of the trash can at the rental office of her low-income apartment’s rental office and goes on a hunt for dicks with little self-respect to wrap her cotton-mouthed lips around. Maybe somewhere along the way the consumer started believing what the little, electronic master-deceiver (that being the television) was feeding him or her. The consumer is taught, neaux trained, to live the dream and at some point begins to believe that he or she is actually living the dream, but in actuality the dream is just that, a dream. And the dream isn’t seaux much just American anymore. Oh neaux, the dream has gone viral and now the consumer is not only forced to believe that Rolaids literally spells relief, but alseaux that unless he’s walking around with a spotted genet in a diamond-encrusted collar on Louis Vuitton leash, he needs to lie back down and revisit his dream for some tweaking. Real life doesn’t work in the way in which it is portrayed on television. Bitches ain’t out here buying $18 drinks and throwing them in the faces of other bitches who are draped in head to toe Givenchy. Well, maybe in LA, New York, or Miami somewhere….Las Vegas, but certainly not at Scooter’s or the Rockin’ R or Ice Event Center. And very few are able to geaux to the bank and fill up a Prada backpack with bills just to geaux to the strip club and make it rain on a bunch of bastards who’ll be stocking tampons at Walmart or taking massage therapy classes at Platt College the next morning. Real life’s an often fruitless quest for intimate and patches of happiness, interspersed with toil, police brutality, divorce, DUIs, bad haircuts, recycled weave, over-priced box sets, child support, stomach bugs, feet looking like hermit crabs in too little open-toed shoes, repetition, cornrows that don’t quite reach the base of the neck, gas bills, sexual dysfunction, EBT cards, Justin Bieber overload, and WASPs. This is real life: waste ground, bums in unmarred Sketchers eating tender meat left on Church’s Chicken bones from the dumpster behind Stripes, which often turns out to be disappointing scraps of bad breath, greasy gristle because this is real life and more often than not, real life sucks, but doesn’t swallow. That’s why it’s such a crushing mystery that half the time your tv is eager to stick happy-go-lucky dimwits in your face. Muthafuckas who live in a world that does not involve bills and car problems and socks with holes in the pinky toe and rancid pussy and spinners that attach like Lee Press-on Nails on a 1991 Chevy Caprice Classic.
Our “thirsty for every glimmering morsel of consumerism flashed before our coked-out eyes” attitude is constantly being shaped and molded, neaux fuck that we are literally being brainwashed just by living in the world of aspirational television; aspirational being a wildly popular term among those who make a living by taking up residence in TV land and broadcasting their Keeping Up with the Kardashians lives into our Roseanne Barr realities. It’s a fuzzy world in which the majority of people are thin, Caucasian, attractive by European standards, witty, sassy, cool, fun-loving, thoughtful, carefree, and happy, and enjoy a life of cocktails, Black cards, STD-free sex, backstage passes, paid appearances, and shoes to fill every void in their low SAT score, but Igh attend an Ivy-league university personalities. The basic theory behind aspirational programming is that if you watch beautiful, fun-loving people on the TV who have every garment from the runways of New York Fashion week and every gadget Apple makes, you’ll somehow be convinced that these animated mannequins are your friends, whereas in reality, of course, you’re essentially just an average Joe, staring at them from the other side of a room that probably has been shit in by an army of pets over the years of existence or at the very least has been vomited in by some drunken teenager or alcoholic parent. It seems every other show on TV these days has some sort of aspirational undercurrent, but where did it all begin?
Like everything evil that exists within what we know of the universe, it came from an unyielding obsession with the sweet nectar of pussy. Igh’m just fuckin’ with y’all. It legitimately arose from the world of advertising. If you geaux back and trace the evolution of advertising, you’ll clearly see that many early advertisements were actually functional things; the shit people actually needed. They were essentially just a step up from televised postcards with motion here and there; like little more than animated, flickering billboards designed to install the practical virtues of the products they were pushing. Basically on some you have carpet. Carpets accumulate all kinds of dust and debris and shit. Vacuums were designed to pick dust and debris and shit out of carpets. We sell vacuums. Buy one from us. Here’s how much they cost. Forced/fake smile. #Vitameatavegimin. But as consumers began to realize that most products were basically the same (because it’s all just stuff, isn’t it?), advertisers began attaching extravagant fantasies to the products they were hawking and this fantasy was an opulent, decadent vision that could be all yours for the price of something that tasted like a refrigerated human organ inside chocolate or that smelled like the combination of a fart and the used dental floss from a bad case of hangover morning breath after a night of violent vomiting filtered through a dryer sheet.
Blame it on those ol musty, neaux deodorant wearing, hairy pussin poppin’, Vienna sausage dick slangin, LSD trippin’, flower sniffing hippies. As people yanked the sticks of the 1950’s out of their asses and the sixties swung into view, cool became the primary obsession of every muthafucka who could still have lucid thought….be that at the hands of intoxicants or the lack thereof. The lucky, cool ad facades lived in a world of glamor, travel, foxy Berka babes, and nicely coiffed hair. Seaux Igh guess you really can’t blame the hippies. Igh mean body odor, bad breath, unprotected sex, and drug abuse were a hard sell back then. And of course instead of hair goop. Hair goop isn’t bourgeois enough. They were actually enticing you with a membership card into the upper echelons of the elite; buy this drivel and you too can be one of the fortunate, happy ones with good insurance and plastic surgery that rarely gets botched and good credit; complete with an enviably cool lifestyle. Then the seventies arrived and everything outdoors was seaux fucking atrocious that drug abuse seemed like a fucking holiday, but luckily the two or three members of the population who weren’t outside rioting or being bombed or trampled on or spit on or sprayed with water hoses or stomped out or handcuffed to one another were indoors being distracted by eerie images of market, aspirational living. Yeah, outside looked like Old Town in Sin City and the shit they were showing on television ads looked like Leave It to Beaver or some shit. As the eighties approached, the advertisers’ desirable vision of the highlife stuck and they knew that consumers were chomping at the bit to suckle the teet of that lifestyle. Conspicuous consumption was being celebrated for its own sake and perhaps the consumer could get his or her hand on luxury every day if they said fuck being responsible with our hard-earned income. Fuck saving. Let’s blow this shit on cocaine, clothes that looked like they were designed by a collaboration between the Parker Bros., Mattel, and Geoffrey from Toys-R-Us, and bar tabs. However, somewhere along the way, the glitz and aspitational values of commercials leaked out and started infecting popular dramas. That’s right! Television shows just became commercials with plot twists.
Then the good ol 80’s rolled around and everybody was addicted to shoulder pads, patent leather, jeri curls, and hairspray. But aside from that, opulence obsession skyrocketed and the talking heads of television production pounced on their prey. This first became apparent as shows like Dallas brought the billionaire lifestyle to the salivating masses. Catch that? FUCKING BILLIONAIRES!!!! They said fuck these thousandaires and millionaires. Let’s get these nigga’s noses wide open for an entirely new bracket of wealth they probably have never even conceived and sure as fuck haven’t been aspiring toward. Dallas was a sumptuous and conspicuously decadent nighttime soap opera detailing the existence of a family of impossibly wealthy, American oil tycoons living empty lives. The show is known for its portrayal of wealth, sex, intrigue, and power struggles. Although it was clear that money wasn’t bringing the Ewings happiness, it was impossible not to envy them. Igh mean who the fuck gives a shit about happiness when you can buy any and everything you could ever imagine…..including people if it tickled your fancy? Dallas was a massive hit, which chimed with the money worshipping eighties, which is why other markets, including the BBC, tried making their own version. Howard’s Way, in which the sun-kissed, country, oil barrons were replaced by the ditsy, cerebrally-ramshackled yacht set, starred a flock of freeloading curmudgeons, gousers, and killjoys racing to acquire swag-wagons and excessively unhinged drinking problems; the winner being the one who hoarded the biggest treasure trove of red things. Getting ahead involved endlessly barking business-flavored badinage at one another. In short, by virtue of being transmitted during the mid to late 1980s alone, Howards’ Way could be described as almost a textbook time capsule of Thatcherite values (Thatcherism describes the conviction politics, economic, social policy, and political style of the British Conservative politician Margaret Thatcher, who was leader of her party from 1975 to 1990. It has also been used to describe the beliefs of the British government while Thatcher was Prime Minister between May 1979 and November 1990, and beyond into the governments of John Major and Tony Blair. An exponent or supporter of Thatcherism is regarded as a Thatcherite), in its portrayal of the years of boom and bust, of individual aspiration and enterprise, and the conspicuous consumption of wealth and liquor and pussy.Shows like these helped shift our perception of tycoons and the importance of money itself.
Game shows are a sure-fire indicator of how the consumer’s relationship with money has changed. These shows prove time and time again that people will geaux to any lengths for money (like licking honey off the gooch of a morbidly obese person who hasn’t been sponge bathed in over a month) and thereby solidifies the notion that the love of money is indeed the root of all evil for a great many fucktards out there. Not too long ago, everyone on game shows was friendly and bubbly and precocious and nice and the shows themselves largely revolved around the simple pleasure of participating in a glorified board game on a gaudy set with some corny, smiling bastard with questionable teeth and hair seaux stiff it could be sponsored be Lego. Once the game was done, the contestants were delighted to accept mere products as prizes. Look Cindy!! Igh won a brand new toaster…complete with a loaf of bread…face ass. And the whole shabang ended on an upbeat note as the fun gang of beaming neighbors waved goodbye to the cadavers back home spitting snuff in an old Green Giant can whilst scratching their netherbits and coughing up pieces of their souls from tobacceaux abuse. But now, cold-steel menace and raw money is the order of the day and the game is a dog-eat-dog accumulation festival culminating in a bitter dispute. See these muthafuckas today are out for blood and if you stand in the way of that paycheck, you just might end up disfigured or maligned.
Another augury of change is the shifting portrayal of wealthy people on the screen. Remember when we all thought rich people were only rich because they lied, cheated, and took advantage of others. Well, many of them still do, but most of us now see this as “The American Way….or possibly “The Global Way”. It is the norm, the status quo, what’s necessary to get where you want to be in life. Right? Back in 1985, while their lifestyles looked glamorous, fictional billionaires like J.R. Ewing were clearly the bad guys. Twenty years later, actual, living, breathing big tycoons were being celebrated and the more explicitly ruthless they were, the more brightly their stars shone…and the more bitches wanted to suckle their semen and niggas wanted to stand in their shoes and fart on a balcony that stands above the rest of the world or some shit.
Money is terrible. It has totally taken the piss out of the concept of humanity. Were there neaux concept of money, there would be neaux concept of rich and poor. It’s just a depressing way of boiling our wonderful world down to a set of gray and green, soulless, bodiless little numbers and using them to screw each other over aggressively and without lube…or spit. Once you’re sitting on enough racks to be able to afford someone to both wipe your ass and subsequently wash your hands after you’ve shit, TV encourages you to invest it all in a box made of bricks. Rich people used to stop us from noticing how rich they were by tinting their car windows or hiding behind high walls where you couldn’t rob or kill them. But now TV allows you a peak behind the gate and frankly the fuck shit is acutely distressing.
MTV Cribs was a highly successful variant of Through the Keyhole (A British comedy panel game show created in which some annoyingly rich son of a bitch shows us the rewards society (most likely us poor schmucks who are slaves to consumerism) has granted them for being important and successful and loved and better than everybody else #NARF; and you have to guess who in God’s name they are. It’s effectively just a shopping channel of things that could’ve been yours if you’d been born important or seaux beautiful that people hate you in real life or were you able able to rap, sing, or act exceptionally well rather than sitting on your butt in Lawton watching MTV Cribs after you get off of work at Country Mart. MTV Cribs dangled the aspiration of carrots seaux impractically out of reach, they might as well put it on a million mile long stick and tie it to a rocket that’s been fired into a black hole. What the fuck do Igh want to sit up and look at the Grado at the Playboy Mansion for all day or the $85,000 a night hotel suite Jay Z rented for Beyonce to shit in when Igh stay in the Gub or the POW’s (That’s ‘pussy on welfare” for all of my non-Lawtonians)?
It should come as neaux surprise that people have always wanted nice houses, obviously they’re not crazy, Igh mean it’s sleeping on a pile of dirty gym socks versus a Sealy Posture-pedic; but back in the day, your options very limited were limited. A house was a house. If you were poor you had to live in a cramped tent with a gaggle of musty relatives with bad breath, bad teeth, bad backs, bad feet, and cholera or the plague. If you were middle class, you had a bigger home that looked more like the Monopoly houses as opposed to a fort built by a 5-yr old and if you were a member of the aristocracy, let’s keep it 100, you lived in palatial bliss like Prince Akeem, Queen Aoleon, and King Jaffe Joffer. For the most part, people largely accepted whichever kind of hovel of a shit hole piss parlor they’d been allotted and then in the eighties, glamorous TV ads made “the dream” seem easily attainable…..much like Barbie’s proportions. But having purchased the gilded and glimmering roofs over their heads, people really didn’t know what to do with themselves. So people kind of lost their shit and started desperately scrambling about trying to spruce their homes up in a bid to kill time and stick it to their neighbors. Igh’m sure this is where the concept of the interior decorator emerged. TV soon noticed this and began offering up cheapo home improvement guff castles, taking the concept of interior design and marrying it to the concept of people slinging any old crap together and generated several hundred hours of television in the process. Igh mean who doesn’t want a golden mermaid with sea salth breast milk dripping from her nipples hanging over their fireplace, right?
Seaux the absolute ultimate in homemade pornography has to be pornography made from homes themselves (neaux not a sex tape you nassies). Igh’m talking about televised aspirational showrooms such as the type which offer a tantalizing glimpse of the kinds of dream homes the consumer too could be dwelling in if only he or she had several hundred-thousand dollars to wipe his/her gooch with and/or six months of leisure time to spare. The hosts of these shows present them in the manner of enthusiastic curators leading the consumer on a personal tour around a museum of cozy, middle class satisfaction. They’re like Bob Barker only with Ken Doll hair, a tool belt, veneers, and a pumpkin patch complexion….and have y’all noticed that they all usually spit a little bit when they talk and have raspy voices? Largely though it’s an envy generator as the consumer looks on, moving from mild interest to outright fury. Why can’t Igh have a marble bathtub with a champagne spicket? Why can’t Igh have carpet made from the fine hairs on the lower backs of Malaysian newborns? Why can’t Igh have a ceiling fan made from the bronzed legs of mannequins? Thanks to shows like this it somehow feels like it’s not enough to just own a reasonably okay house anymore. Instead the consumer can feel a lingering sense of failure for dwelling inside anything other than an architecturally fascinating 4000 ft. translucent diagram, with a gigantic pool filled with the sweat of Aphrodite in the middle for the consumer and his/her kids to take completely for granted and never use.
Food is another aspirational touchstone with y’all’s hungry asses. Well, not literally a hunger in your ass…..maybe for some, but y’all get it. It’s not good enough to simply heat up a meal anymore. Neaux, today, the consumer is supposed to be some kind of gastronomical show-pony with a signature dish of his or her own. “Leigh Leigh girl come taste some of my special ramen noodle casserole gurl. You know Igh cook my shit with chicken broth and put that rotisserie chicken meat from Walmart in it. Grab you one of them Styrofoam plates on top of the refrigerator. Wayment, get three. They the Family Dollar brand, seaux they thin as wind.” Once upon a time cooking shows used to concentrate on the business of cooking whereas today’s cooking shows are far less about food and far more about lifestyle. “Bitch you like my Michael Kors apron and shit bitch? Ross bitch. Ross!” If the way the consumer feeds his or her family has become an aspirational lifestyle choice, so is having a family full stock. Ya dig?
Today, even offspring have become living, breathing status symbols. Children are inexplicably held up as far more than a good thing, but like enchanted forest deities whose every bodily function should be applauded like they’re a Mozart concerto. There are sickening playgroup franchises devoted to keeping them entertained. Then you have the reality shows that want us to geaux ape shit over little girls painted up like Annabelle and prancing around a stage dressed like Marie Antoinette. And advertisers know how much parents adore their kids seaux they pop out aspirational ads that prey on our paternal instincts; and heighten the sense that these magical imps need supernatural protection. One problem with treating kids like delicate, Faberge eggs is the consumer becomes seaux dementedly paranoid about any misfortune befalling them that he or she ends up sealing them indoors around the clock, effectively locking them in a prison that serves organic food in which every surface has been sprayed 86 times with anti-bacterial disinfectant before their little fingers can touch it. So they sit their indoors, growing up in the flickering glare of aspirational imagery; soaking it all up—brightly colored kid’s shows, which make superstardom seem seaux attainable and desirable; swanky, seductive advertisements where a celebrity tells the consumer “you’re seaux special and Igh like your face”; and glossily-packaged celebrity pittle, which largely consists of banal footage of silly adults romping around like children, dressing up, drawing, playing with their soft toys, dressing up, tickling each other, making and doing, dressing up, playing “Here We Go Round the Mulberry Bush”, dressing up as their moms, dressing up, climbing the trees, face painting, and dressing up.
One natural consequence that comes from exposure to this kind of piffle is the kids who watch it grow up wanting to be treated like celebrities themselves; becoming self-obsessed little emperors in the process, and the parents are left scampering about trying to fulfill their every waking desire seaux that they don’t have a meltdown in public and expose generations of family secrets like “Igh hate you mom. You vagina is a rotting hole where the lost souls of the slaves that granddad owned hang out and cook chitterlings and pig’s feet all day. Igh hope it swells shut and you implode. Better yet, Igh hope you walk in on dad eating Aunt Kelsey out like Igh did, you cunt!” For evidence, look up some old episodes of MTV’s My Super Sweet 16. This shit can’t even truly be classified as a show. It’s more an orchestrated smear campaign against humankind in general. Some of it is punishingly depressing. It’s a strange thing that teenage aspirations have morphed from being able to pull off a pretty good BMX trick or having fewer acne blemishes or getting a date that isn’t hideous for the important school dances to being showered with adulation like they’re Lady Gaga and Elton John crossed with God. Make neaux mistake, the next generation is going to be even more horrible because they will be the children of these bedazzled children of the corn.
Way back in the day, people only achieved a level of what might be termed celebrity by displaying a remarkable level of talent and Igh mean they performed at a level that was truly worthy of attention. Whereas during this current befuddled and confused period of human history, it’s apparently possible to become famous merely for inhaling and exhaling on camera IF your makeup and edges are on fleek or if you have ice blue eyes and face tattoos. The galaxy of fame has a complex, ever-shifting hierarchy. Burning brightest are the proper stars; actors, and musicians, and the like. Some become supergiants like Beyonce’ or Brad Pitt and they’re alseaux insanely powerful and get to rub elbow (or genitals) with the rulers of entire continents and shit. If the Zayn Malik called a live, globally televised press conference during which he plucked out two of his chest hairs and said he’d hand deliver them to the first viewer to turn around and murder a member of their own family, thousands would perish.
Then there’s the newest cluster, not really stars at all, more huge balls of anti-matter who act as sort of sanctioned hate sponges, feeding off the animosity of the general public; growing bigger and bigger until they implode. You know Kim Kardashian or famous Viners and Instagram models and comedians and shit. The sheer amount of disdain many people harbor for these uberfamous anti-celebrities is staggering. They hate them and hate them and hate them with the same dogged indignation of racists, but they can’t stop looking at them. Igh mean if they aren’t looking and them and following their every move, how can they hate and bemoan them effectively?
Showbiz garbage rags exploit the fact that consumers both hate and love celebrities, which is why their every imperfection gets looked over and circled by magazine’s vile, hypercritical, self-loathing, pudgy in the mid-section and my waist trainer is pinching a nerve staff. It won’t be long until they start offering an interactive online service which lets their disgusting readers zoom in to each photograph in infinite detail like it’s Google earth. Tagging and logging each miniscule flaw seaux that the uglies of the consumer base can build up a comprehensive overview of just how many spotted, little, horrid bits can be unearthed on the surfaces of the world’s most beautiful women. If even the world’s most inherently gorgeous people are subject to that kind of scrutiny, how can Jane Doe possibly compete? Well, she can’t, obviously, because unlike them she’s built like a glop of mashed potatoes and all of her ends are seaux split that her hair looks like a broom from Dollar General after a week of use, seaux her entire life becomes one long, slow emotional breakdown. Still at least neaux one’s judging ordinary people, apart from the television.
It’s little wonder that the normal, ordinary person feels worthless, because the aspirational whirlpool is, if anything, speeding up. Celebrities and anti-celebrities are sprouting up everywhere you look and the existing ones are getting more and more famous and flaunting their extravagance in our faces, not only on TV, oh neaux. Now they are flashing their opulence in our faces by way of our phones. Every image on television and our phones, ahem Instagram, is growing more glamorous and dream-like by the moment. The advertisements are becoming more unhinged in their desperate quest for things to aspire to. Even every day products have lost their minds and they don’t even have minds. And as for food, even dog food, which used to be advertised with a sort of gruff matronly-friendliness, has become a gourmet signature dish for the consumer to plop down in front of some four-legged Caesar. “Nigga my Yorkie eats better than your entire bloodline!” Even MTV Cribs evolved into something more extreme with the incredible Teen Cribs. How is the consumer meant to aspire to be someone’s child? WAYMENT!!!! Seaux your child’s weekly allowance is equivalent to my yearly salary and their club house is more furnished than the home Igh’ve paid a mortgage on for the past forty years? And the worship of money, just raw money, got worse; seaux bad that rap videos look more like satirical visions of empty excess. It’s actually not clear who these videos demean the most, the women, Black people in general, or the viewer. #BUSSIT
Before long, behaving like a massive, swaggering twat wasn’t just acceptable, it was openly encouraged. It is celebrated. It is praised. Faced with all these unattainable dreams, it takes little wonder that seaux many people in seaux many places got themselves wedged seaux deep in debt. People bought houses and bragged about how the value kept zooming up into the skyline. In fact, they didn’t seem to be houses at all, but exotic coin shitting machines. It was all a collective delusion and none of it was real. None of it is real. It’s just dust. And it wasn’t just homeowners. The whole world had dreamed itself into a wistful, financial thought-bubble, which inevitably popped. And what could the consumer do then? When the money ran completely dry, seaux did all the consumer’s dreams and they’d lost the one thing they were clinging on to, their aspiration kennel; their home.
It’s a huge thumbs down to all these prettified, insidious televisual delusions. It’s best to hammer shut the dream flap seaux the consumer doesn’t want for the over-inflated imaginings anyway seaux that we will be content to sit at a desk for eight hours a day. If it all gets to be too much, just switch your TV off. Stop living off some kind of rubbish trip and actually enjoy yourself in the state of your reality. Save yourselves. The TV is really brainwashing you. Why do you think you’re more addicted to spending than you are to saving and investing? If they keep us salivating for wealth and aspiring to look like wealth, we’ll continue to funnel money into their glory-holes, further cementing their wealth and our poverty.
ARTWORK BY: _LATEETH (Latif Trice) Geaux to his page and see if you correctly identified each character he’s drawn and if you follow him on Instagram, be sure to tag @tristonfordummies in a comment and let him know Igh’m the reason you discovered his work….shit do it even if you don’t follow him. And follow me you baldheaded cunts. NARF!!!! #Yomp
Post Script: People fear what they don’t understand and since many have not taken time to understand the ongoing sting of the system of oppression that is racism and how it affects the mentality and behaviors of Black people are quick to criticize the symptoms rather than addressing the illness. Society is sick and if you are ridiculing the parents of Mike Brown during their time of loss or otherwise being flippant with how you chose to voice your opinions regarding this matter, then Igh truly pray that you develop an infection in your genitals that causes you to smell like pickled octopus placenta boiled and soaked in apple cider vinegar.
What’s the damn deal pussy poppers and dick slangers? Igh hope you whores have had a blessed and highly favored week since Igh last chopped it up with y’all and Igh mean that from the bottom of my heart a little bit. Seaux every time Igh say Igh am going to take a break off from blogging or bitching and complaining or talking shit out the side of my neck or however the fuck it y’all are delineating my weekly musings, Igh come across something that inspires me to get back on top of this shit and pound it like pussy with neaux walls. Seaux without further ado (yes it’s ado, not or do ya bish)…..LEGGEAUX!!!!!!
Before Igh dive right into the blogging, let me take a moment to give the breaux Jacobi Isham a special shout out for the work he’s been putting in for the Winter 2015 release of his clothing line BOMBnCOMS!!!!! Igh love see young, Black men not only with vision, but with the dedication, commitment to hard work, and perseverance to see their vision come to fruition. Not to mention that the fact that he’s a fellow Lawtonian, seaux he gets my undying support off top!!!!! Igh implore each and everyone of you to take a moment and review his goods as well as lend your support to his endeavors. We must rally behind those who are trying to launch ventures locally seaux that we can contribute to their success. We as a community have grown accustomed to being leary of supporting one another wholeheartedly and this fucked up mentality has landed us at the bottom of the economic totem pole over and over again. Now is the time to set in motion actions that we allow us to rise above our current lot in life. Might as well start by supporting the breaux.
“Our Winter ’15 Collection is a 4-piece set comprised of a tee, hooded tee, hoodie, and a crew neck. All of our themes and designs are rooted in our name, Burdens On My Back & Chips On My Shoulders. In our debut collection we wanted to establish a brand presence that actually meant something. Check the link to the blog below for an in-depth look into each piece in the collection.
We want to give value to customers lives, not just their closets. We plan on doing that by giving people a brand to relate to and be a part of, whether consciously or subconsciously. We believe that everyone has a come up of some kind and we want to embody a prevailing mentality regardless of what adversities stand in the way through high quality clothing. All of our products are made with 100% organic cotton and imported in from China.” – Jacobi Isham
THROWBACK THURSDAY: 2001, A little something Igh wrote 13 years ageaux #IghBeenOn
VANILLA vs. CHOCOLATE or CHOCOLATE-VANILLA SWIRL
Seaux it seems that BET has been on the come-up since its purchase by Viacom, but if you ask me, and really if you don’t, we need to take a closer look at what’s really going on. By taking an examining look, it becomes apparent that the networks’ authenticity is being sacrificed in order to make it more of a carbon copy of other networks (i.e. MTV & VH1) that have found success based upon the music video market. Let’s face it, the powers that be have ripped off every MTV show, bootlegged them, given them new names, and presented them to the BET viewing audience as an “all-new lineup of shows”. Think about it! Is 106 & Park not just the “Black” version of Total Request Live (TRL)? BET has BET Style, but if you think back, Cindy Crawford and Molly Sims both hosted MTV’s House of Style way before BET’s version was ever thought of and hit the airwaves. The Real World premiered on MTV over a decade ageaux and still garners a huge following for the network and now BET has College Hill, which is simply a low-budget knockoff of the original, with a slight twist, of course, in that it is focused solely on the collegiate population. The list goes on and as Igh make mention of a few more, Igh think you’ll begin to notice a pattern. For instance, MTV has Cribs, which reveals to the world just how lavish, lush, and luxurious our favorite celebrities are living and BET has, well what d you know, How I’m Living. MTV’s Making the Video grants the viewing public access to the behind the scenes footage that chronicles just what it took to produce a video and BET has Access Granted which achieves the same end.
MTV’s popular booze-fest, Spring Break, gives an inside look at how out of control both high school and college students get for the duration of about one week’s vacation during their Spring semester of school each year and BET’s Spring Bling, does exactly the same thing, only on a much smaller scale. Rap City’s Da Basement is a reincarnation of Yo! MTV Raps. Blowin’ Up Fatty Koo is most assuredly a rip off of Making the Band. Although they are no longer on the air, The Tom Green Show and Hits from the Street were definitely cut from the same cloth, or should Igh say someone stole pieces of reel from the cutting room floor at MTC and inserted Hits into the sketches. Then you have the MTV and BET Awards, enough said. It really is sad because it’s almost like BET is trying to keep up with the Jones’ on this as opposed to defining the face it presents to the world for itself. The network executives got rid of one of the most original and entertaining hosts that ever appeared on air, C.I.T.A. She defined BET in a way that all other hosts had been unable to do. She was smart, witty, sassy, sarcastic, aware, funny, and computer generated, seaux the scope of possibility in which she could be used was infinite. Igh must say that Igh am really disappointed that BET, the station that was supposed to retain the African-American interest at its heart, can now easily be called Black-face Entertainment Television or the Black Puppet Show, because Igh doubt very seriously that African-Americans are pulling the strings around there and am skeptical in believing that there are really any African-Americans who have any pull whatsoever. These are the ranting thoughts of me, Triston for Dummies. If you don’t like what Igh have to say then you are probably out of touch with reality, face it. Igh’ll geaux on record as saying that we as African-Americans have to do better for ourselves, otherwise Igh’ll continue to piss people off with my opinions. Igh’ll holla. #TBT
Are selfies making us self-centered?
There’s a meme floating around that says something to the effect: WE SPEND MORE TIME LOOKING AT MIRRORS AND PHONES THAN WE DO LOOKING AT ACTUAL PEOPLE. It doesn’t matter where you geaux these days (Wal-Mart, car wash, Church’s Chicken, Laundromat, Quincinera, DHS, Bar Mitzvah, abortion clinic) you are bound to see at least one person feverishly snapping pictures of themselves. We are out of fucking control with it…..in line at the grocery store or waiting for coffee at Starbuck’s, with the pastor after he’s prayed a pussy demon up out of you; in the hospital with tubes and machines hooked up to you; even inside the movie theatre while the movie has been underway for 30 minutes. People’s apartment building can be burning down and Igh guarantee you there’ll be at least one chick who just got her hair and eyelashes done trying to upload a quick pic in front of the flames because her edges are on FLEEK!!!!! Fuck the bride coming down the aisle, everybody wants a candid of themselves during her stroll. Igh’m willing to bet there are thousand upon thousand of selfies on Instagram right now that have been taken at some poor, unfortunate soul’s funeral. Neaux fucking chill in sight.
Igh’m guilty and Igh’ve been the victim of it. Igh’ve been out with a group of people trying to have a good time and not succeeding and it never fails that when the boredom or whatever the encumbrance too my good time becomes too much, Igh whip out my phone and start doling out seaux much light-skin face that the browner folks in my company start squinting and furrowing their brow without knowing why. Igh’ve alseaux had a chick whip out her phone and have an impromptu photo shoot on me. The sad part is, Igh didn’t even get offended. Igh hopped in a couple of hers to make some “usies”, then started snapping pics of myself. It’s like selfies are the new small talk. When all else fails, snap a selfie face ass.
Do y’all know how crazy we look to older generations? But hold up, what cracks me up more than anything are those people who love to snap pics of themselves, but swear up and down they don’t take selfies. Yeah okay nigga. And my momma don’t bake cakes either. She just cooks fluffy bread products with icing on them. It’s amazing to see the paradigm shift as people become more and more narcissistic. This is essentially why Igh’ve taken to calling everyone whores. It’s what we do. We prostitute our free time for likes and comments. Some of us will never admit it, but we crave the attention and are obsessed with the fleeting adoration. Igh’m just waiting for someone to say that they are addicted to notifications. WAYMENT!!!!!! Igh’ve already said that, seaux Igh guess Igh’m waiting to hear some other muthafuck to say it lol.
The Sad Hatter
The American Dream is a national ethos of the United States, a set of ideals in which freedom includes the opportunity for prosperity and success, and an upward social mobility achieved through hard work. In the definition of the American Dream by James Truslow Adams in 1931, “life should be better and richer and fuller for everyone, with opportunity for each according to ability or achievement” regardless of social class or circumstances of birth. The idea of the American Dream is rooted in the United States Declaration of Independence which proclaims that “all men are created equal” and that they are “endowed by their Creator with certain inalienable Rights” including “Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.” #Wikipedia. We were raised on the teet of the American Dream. It both fed and nourished our very existence from the point at which we first developed cognitive thought. It guided us in the way we viewed the world and was at the helm of our aspirations. It became our trusty steed waiting to gallop us into the sunset of a bright and bustling future. It was to be our very own Manifest Destiny.
The problem with the American Dream is that it doesn’t prepare us for the American reality. You see the American Dream doesn’t prepare you for the first time you’re called a nigger just for waking up with your soul encased within the very flesh that was chosen for you by whatever supreme power withholds the sovereignty to make such selections. The American Dream does not prepare you for that pedophile in family friend’s clothing who likes to prey upon the weak and defenseless when no one with enough strength to intervene is looking. The American Dream does not prepare you for racial profiling, being falsely accused of date rape, gender inequality, and IRS audits.
The American Dream offers no tutorial in predatory lending practices, interest rates, or eviction notices. There are no guidance counselors standing by to assist you in traversing the landscape of a diminished job market. There are no mentors within reach to show you how to balance your checkbook. You see the American Dream is very adept in teaching us to imagine what life could be, but it fails in preparing us for the horrors of what life really is: Prostitution, drug addition, self-loathing, identity crisis, and mental illness. Rather than prepare us for anything, the American Dream essentially sets us up for failure and remands us into the care of the School of Hard-Knocks.
I’m inclined to believe that whomever concocted this notion of the American Dream probably believed wholeheartedly in the Big Bang Theory. I say this because both require the same, unfounded belief that if all of the components are available in nature then suddenly by some stroke of magic the human mind cannot fathom a great spark of some sort, all things will fall into place, and the end product will be greater than the some of its parts. BALDERDASH!!!! I can take all of the components for a washing machine, place them in a big box, then toss in a stick of dynamite and I guarantee you the end result will most assuredly not be an intact washing apparatus. So too, you can do everything according to the letter of the American Dream: Go to school, graduate from college, get a good paying job, marry a pretty whore who can do a mean Stepford Wife in a public setting, have 2.5 kids, buy a hypoallergenic dog, and set up shop in a gated community lined with White picket fences, and chances are the bottom will fall out of your unmerited bliss faster than your perfect lawn can fill in all of its bald spots.
You see, when the idea of the American Dream became the trending topic for the greater portion of this corporation, I mean, country’s elite, American greed had not fully acquiesced as the feisty foe it is today. And even in the absence of greed, can we honestly say that life in America has ever truly afforded the opportunity to make individual choices without the prior restrictions that limited people according to their class, caste, religion, race, or ethnicity? And when I ask this question, I am thinking of everyone, not just the hardships that Native and African Americans have had to endure. America has been built up as the land that flows with milk and honey, when in all actuality there’s a great deal of bile and feces floating in those murky tides as well.
But you see the Hatter’s sadness is not just born of American suffering. Oh no. There’s far too much world out there for for the Hatter’s sadness to be sequestered for American suffering alone. There are young girls across the world being stolen and sold as sex chattel. There are children who’ve eaten so little that their body’s are literally feeding on themselves. Exploitation, persecution, and maltreatment seem to be escalating at pandemic rates. There is little to no value for life.
Many of us are inclined to believe that the war between good and evil is being waged around us. I am of the mind that that war is taking place within us, one life at a time. It is in the helping hand we refuse to lend; the kind word we refuse to speak; the loving embrace we refuse to give. It is in the backbiting, deceit, lies, and theft we tender. It is in every lie we tell and every truth we withhold. It is in each syllable of gossip we spread and every ounce of envy and jealousy we maintain. Whomever first said that reality is stranger than fiction was indeed wise. We like to imagine that witches, warlocks, gargoyles, vampires, zombies, the boogeyman, and all other manner of creepy-crawly things that go bump in the night are the greatest threat, when in all actuality, humans are the most gruesome monsters on the face of the Earth.
LIFETIME PRESENTS: A BATCH OF BULLSHIT THEY SHOULD’VE KNOWN BETTER THAN TO TOUCH
Wendy, Wendy, Wendy…..Igh’d be lying if Igh didn’t say that Igh was happy this blew up in your face, but since Black Twitter and the Meme Mob are handing you your muscular gooch on a silver platter, Igh’m not going to given you any more bumps and bruises. Instead Igh’d like to focus on Aaliyah’s family and how they continue to fuck up her legacy. Look, Aaliyah is not just y’alls. She is ours as well. She made the conscious decision to become an entertainer and thereby an integral part of many of our lives and for y’all to continually stand in the way of efforts to honor her legacy is a boiling glop of sloth shit. Igh could understand if y’all were actively trying to produce projects to honor her legacy yourselves, but neaux, y’all are just being shitty toward everyone who wants to honor her. Y’all got pissy with Drake when he wanted to produce new music for her and then y’all became a hurdle for this failed biopic attempt. Igh can understand the latter. Aaliyah was bigger than a Lifetime movie. She deserved to be on the big screen. But what the fuck are y’all doing to see her get there? And don’t tell me it’s too soon. She’s been deceased longer than she was famous.
Okay, seaux Igh said Igh wasn’t gonna really comment on the movie, primarily because Igh haven’t seen and because the backlash has been seaux phenomenal there’s probably very little Igh can add. However, Igh will say this, Igh full understand that the casting, acting, and script were a hot, steaming pile of Dik Dik shit, but WENDY WILLIAMS EXECUTIVE PRODUCED THE MUTHAFUCKA!!!!! Do y’all honestly think that Wendy Williams set out with the intention of honoring the musical legacy of Aaliyah. This IS Wendy Williams we’re talking about here….the messiest, most gossiping, linebacker-built bitch on television. Anybody who fooled themselves into believing that the was merely some sensationalistic bullshit to increase Wendy’s relevance is as dumb as the corn husk in my shit a couple of days ageaux. Of course the R. Kelly marriage scandal was the story she really wanted to tell. We may have loving referred to Aaliyahas “Baby Girl”, but she CLEARLY let us know that age ain’t nothin’, but a number and throwin’ down ain’t nothin’, but a thing. SHE HAD SOME GUILDED FUCKIN’ SKELETONS IN HER CLOSET Y’ALL!!!
Was Wendy wrong as her shape for exploiting a dead person for her own gain? Well, yeah, but Aaliyah ain’t trippin…..and her family has been assholes to everybody who has ever attempted to legitimately honor the legacy of Aaliyah (as Igh stated previously), seaux in my humble opinion they are partially at fault for the tragic bullshit. HOPEFULLY now that this fuck shit has thoroughly crashed and burned y’all will stop fuckin’ up the process and let something masterful be created to truly show the world what a resplendent light Aaliyah was and what a gift she was to both music and film. Otherwise her legacy will be marred with flops and Aaliyah wasn’t a fucking flop artist.
THESE FUCKIN’ MEMES THEAUX!!!!!!
Before Igh move on let me give a round of applause for both the creativity and hilarity of the muthafuckas behind these memes…..and memes in general. Y’all never cease to amaze me with how clever y’all can be with these hoes. That gotdamn EJ Johnson one had a nigga straight ROLLIN’!!!!!