Editor’s Note: The gripping conclusion to this story. Did you read the whole thing? I don’t believe it. I sure as hell didn’t.

I came to in a haze. I was lying on hot asphalt, my face toward the sky, but my newly returned vision obscured by hot breath and saliva.  I wearily slid back to find the source of my moistening.  I was greeted with the dopey face of a spritely pit bull puppy.  I rose to my feet and attempted to quell his exuberance.

“Down boy.  Girl.  Pit bull baby, just.  Come on.”

As he paced happily around my feet, I started to become aware of my surroundings.

Champagne waterfalls spilled serenely over dark chocolate cliffs. A thin haze pervaded the air all around. I stood in the middle of a valley among the cliffs. Trees draped with gigantic chains and covered in leaves of gold cast shadows along the blacktop.  I should make clear that the leaves were not golden, but actual gold.  Also the cliffs: actual chocolate.  And why the fuck is the ground asphalt just everywhere?

My gaze caught a line of white paint along the ground, which I began to follow.  A boundary of some sort.  It made a right angle and shot to the left.  Following it further, I began to hear distant giggling.  As I moved closer, the laughter mixed with a low droning pulse that built steadily with a crescendo.  Past a small thicket of trees, which, I can’t stress enough, were growing from pavement, I saw shimmering metal.  I quickly ducked behind a tree trunk and peered, like a bitch.

Looking down the length of the line I saw the first point of its interruption: an enormous steel pole atop which was, of course, a basketball hoop.  Racist.  Underneath gathered a gaggle of ghetto girls.  Wearing what essentially amounted to dental floss and broken dreams, the girls were shaking what their mommas forced on them to the now clearly audible bass thumping just a little louder than the Homeowner’s Association would appreciate.

I only peeled my eyes away from the T&A parade when a man slid a credit through one of the girl’s asses.  That statement does not bear repeating.  The suddenly present feminist in me propelled me from my hiding place to object.

“Hey now you just wait a gosh darn mi–”

The rest of my protest squeaked inaudibly from my throat as I was yanked violently to the ground, a hand clasped over my mouth.  I peered up from under my brow to its owner: Carson Daly.

“Be quiet.  If they catch you over here, we’re through before we’ve started.”

He pulled me to my feet, quelling my next attempt to speak with an alarmingly soft finger to my lips.  I had a feeling it was gonna get gay real quick.

We hustled through a thicket of gold leaf trees, keeping low to the ground.  A few feet past the last sapling, we ducked behind a decommissioned hot tub.  I took in Carson’s late 90′s face.

“What is this, I don’t even” was all I could muster.

“Listen and listen closely. We are in an alternate universe. The Profaniverse.  It’s the oasis for all things offensive, the fortress of filth, the source of all smut.  Many years ago it was created to horde all of the world’s dirty, innuendo laden, scantily clad garbage.  Here it could breed and grow, slowly leaking into the world rap video by rap video.  It is the brainchild of its fearless leader.  The one man who produces enough skank to warrant an entire alternate universe.”

I waited on eggshells.  But not literally, on account of the pavement.

Carson paused, then delivered the blow: “David Banner.”

My testicles rescinded into my body in that way they do when its super cold and you forgot pants.  And you’re a boy.  I figured that was implied.  Carson continued in his increasingly attractive tenor.

“The Filth started infiltrating the real world, slowly but surely.  A little N.W.A. here, a little Naughty by Nature there.  But it didn’t take long before it grew.  More and more of the Filth was showing up every month, then every week, then almost every day.  I was tasked with leading the resistance in our universe.  I used TRL to promote anti-Filth.  N*SYNC, Britney Spears, the Backstreet Boys, whatever bubblegum pop we could pump out to fight the Filth.  But it wasn’t enough.  We needed to cut it at its source.”

Carson’s eyes dropped and he let out an exasperated sigh.  I could see it pained him to continue.  Or maybe he was just out of breath.  He had been babbling for fucking ever.

“That’s when I was sent here.  My strength in sanitary entertainment was enough to hold off the Filth.  It still made it out in phases, but I did well to keep it mostly at bay.  At least for a short time.  Then, R. came.  He was nearly as powerful as David, with even less to lose.  He was David’s right hand man, his top general, his enforcer.  He quickly became too much to handle.  The guy could fly for Heaven’s sake! The Filth began to pour out into our universe, soaking the airwaves, dripping all over the youth of the world all nasty and gross.  I was powerless to stop it.”

Carson was staring at his feet now, sullen, defeated.  Suddenly, he snapped back to reality, his eyes lighting up, his tale taking a turn.

“That was until something changed. R. changed.  I can never be sure exactly what caused it, but he disappeared back to our universe for a stretch and when he came back, he wasn’t the same.  I overheard something about lawyers and possibly jail, but no details.  After that, he was different.  He began to subvert David, cleaning things up like the FCC behind his back.  By the time David caught on, R.’s plan was in motion.  In one fell swoop, like the reverse of Pandora’s box, R. enveloped all of the Filth and dragged it screaming into its prison. A closet.”

I stared slack-jawed.

“You’re fisting me, right?”

“No.  No, fists are both right here.”

He showed me his fists.  Such supple skin.

Carson went on.

“Once he trapped the Filth in the closet, R. returned to our universe.   R. created his ‘Trapped in the Closet’ saga to to tell his story, albeit layered in the sparkling metaphors only R. is capable of producing.”

My face contorted at his compliment. Carson ignored it.

“He, and rightly all of us, believed that we were safe. Little did we know David’s cunning.  He lay in wait, gaining strength each passing day.  He planted the golden trees, poured the asphalt earth, and forged his whorish minions.  Finally, somehow, he got to R.’s creation.  He rigged it so that once someone watched it start to finish, a portal to the Filth’s universe would open. The saga being so long, it went quite some time unwatched.  Sure, people saw the beginning and a few went further than that, but no one ever reached the end. Not even R. himself.  Until you.”

I vomited.  Not a lot, but enough to be pretty noticeable.  You can’t really hide throwing up very well.  Carson’s face became grave.  Sexy and grave.

“The same portal in R.’s theater that brought you here is now a gaping maw of darkness, spewing a torrent of the vile Filth into our reality.”

Carson cast his eyes to the ground.  I followed his lead and stared down.  My mind began to drift, wondering how miserable it would be if shirts were only made of blacktop when Carson spoke again. His voice had an excitement to it.  A really fuckable excitement.

“All is not lost.  Hope springs eternal. Come.  We must hurry!”

Gripping my wrist with a fierce yet loving tension, Carson and I headed away into the distance.

After a great deal of running, wheezing, semi-jogging, sitting, hacking, and a bit more running, we arrived at the mouth of a great cave situated to the West of the furthest champagne fall.

I stared in awe at its magnificence as Carson skittered around a corner and out of sight.  My ears caught a rustling and some faint murmuring from the place to which he had disappeared.   A few seconds passed before Carson popped his perfectly formed head around the corner.  His hot, dirty body followed after, but he was not alone.  Behind him trailed…it couldn’t be…

R.

In a blazing white suit, R. stood before me, somehow not high from the peyote and frogs.  In fact, I just now noticed that, since coming here, I wasn’t either.  Nice side effect, I reasoned.

“Sup, Nigga?” R. said to me, failing to observe the irony and blatant racism of his greeting.

“Forgive him.” Carson sexed.  “He sometimes has trouble fighting the influence of the Filth in this world.”

R. looked closer to a child fighting the urge to steal candy from a 7-11 than a powerful flying R&B artist or whatever he normally was.  He fiddled with his fingers before dashing off into the cave.

“Come on motherfuckers!” he yelled, like an asshole.

Carson and I, clearly trusting this daffy loon, followed suit. Reaching the back of the cave, I was greeted with an astounding sight.

Glistening with a trickle of sunlight that managed to sneak its way through the cracks in the cave ceiling was a grandiose crag of ice.  Set in its center, frozen with their last gleaming expressions, were four men.

Slackjawed, I took in the scene.

“The Wiggles” Carson confirmed. “They are the great antithesis to David Banner.  Clean, caring, loving, and pastel like it’s nobody’s business. Which it isn’t.”

“How do we get them out?”

Carson’s eyes locked on mine.  I came.

“You’ll see.”

Over his shoulder I saw R. taking a ceremonial stance before the great structure.  He kneeled before the monolith, muttering under his breath. Rising from his knees, I heard the unmistakable sound of a zipper being lowered.  So this is how it’s gonna be?

R. proceeded to pee just all over the ice.  My first thought was ‘Wow, that’s how we work in a pissing on things joke?’ which, yes, it is.  Then I thought ‘There’s no way one guy can pee enough to melt all of that ice.’

And I was right.  It wasn’t the sheer amount of urine that did it.  As R.’s flow struck the frigid ice, the entire mass began to glow.  A searing light filled the cave, blinding hot white crashing over every inch of surface.  I shielded my eyes from the pain.  Once it had finally died down, I peeled my lids open to see all four Wiggles standing proudly before me.

Carson stepped from behind to my side.  He looked them over proudly.

“It’s time.”

We stood before a great looming castle.  How did we get there?  We walked, you jerk, but that’s boring to read, okay?  God.  You’re such a dick.

The castle’s size was only outdone by its extravagance.  Its facade shimmered as millions of diamonds coated its surface.  The moat ran rife with Cirroc.  All of the towers were penises.  It was something.

“How do we get in?” I asked the group.

The first Wiggle, the Red One, turned to me, his head cocked to the side like a curious puppy.  With no warning, his eyes turned ink black and his mouth snapped open, wider than his jaw like a snake’s.  A shriek like all of the strangled cries of the damned wretched from his throat and, with a flash and a bang, we stood in David Banner’s throne room.

“Wh– What, can we.  WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT?”

I shot glances back and forth among my companions.

“Why did we walk from the cave?  It took like 4 hours! Why d– I hate you guys.”

Across the room, David Banner had risen from his throne of platinum. His pupils sat lonely in his eyes like a lone star in the void of space.  His satin thong left little to the imagination.  He was visibly aroused.  His crown of fingers sat atop a corn-rowed head of jet black hair. The bones in his animal fur robe jangled with his movements.

He laughed a hearty, sultry, super disgusting laugh.

“So. You think you can save the day?” He looked across our fellowship. “As we speak, the Filth is pouring into your universe, soaking everything with its nasty jizzy film.  There’s nothing you can do. Nothing will stop me now, you cum guzzling dumpster sluts!”

“That’s a bit rude, I’d have to say” I mumbled to no one in particular.

David took a few steps toward us.  The Wiggles, silent so far, matched his movements, the two entities now only paces apart.

“But even so. If it’s a fight you want, it’s a fight you’ll get.”

David ripped an enormous staff from a stand to his left.  It was, as expected, a penis.  Wielding it above his head, his arms shook with fury and his eyes glowed with fiery rage.

The Wiggles clapped in unison, producing instruments before them: an acoustic guitar, a tambourine, a recorder, and a stuffed Build-a-Bear. Not technically an instrument, I know. We were fucked.

The two sides stood unblinking. I could hear Carson’s heart pumping his red hot blood through his body, pulsing like a big throbbing c–.  No matter.

David made the first move.  Raising his penis staff to its apex, he thundered “Hey, girl! I’m trying to GET YOUR PUSSY WET!!!”

With a great swoop, he slammed the staff’s end into the chamber floor.  A shockwave shot from the impact site, knocking me off my feet and out of consciousness.  As my mind became cloudy, I heard the Wiggles break into a fading chorus of “Willaby Wallaby Woo.”  The last words I heard were sung: ‘An elephant sat on you.” Then everything went black.

Epilogue

I awoke on a deep shag carpet that smelled strongly of gin and regret.  Sitting up, I tried to orient myself.  As my vision focused I realized I was back in R.’s theater.  Alone.

I knew I was alone because R.’s prostrate body lay next to me.  Donned in his white suit, his glassy eyes stared blankly, unmoving.

In his hand lay a Polaroid picture. I took it from his lifeless grip. It was a shot of David Banner’s throne room.  In the center a pair of dark legs in leopard skin I knew to be David’s stuck out from underneath a mammoth object: an elephant’s ass.  An elephant had actually sat on David.

Rising to my feet I surveyed the room.  Apart from R.’s body, nothing seemed out of place. Check that: one thing.  At the foot of the projector sat a set of film reels.  I quickly gathered them up and took them out to the backyard.

On a patch of patio outside, I piled the reels on one another and, using a nearby grill lighter, set them ablaze.  As I gazed into the flames tears began to well in my eyes.  Unzipping my pants, I unleashed a torrent of urine onto the fire like it was a 14 year old girl’s tear streaked face.  R. would have been proud.

Sparing the details of my return travel, suffice it to say, there were syringes involved.

Once back in my house, I slumped down into my faux leather couch, finally able to relax.  Clicking on the television I was met with the sounds of an awards show.

“Of course, the Grammys are tonight” I thought out loud because I live alone.

The crowd on screen seemed eager as the presenter unfurled an envelope.

“And the winner for Performer of the Year goes to…The Wiggles!”

As the camera panned to the audience, I saw that nearly everyone was adorned with pastel turtlenecks, fake plastic smiles plastered on their faces.  The men of the hour strode gleefully to the podium, ‘Willaby Wallaby Woo’ drifting through the house speakers in the background.

The presenter’s voice trailed off as I began to get dizzy.

“This is the Wiggles sixteenth Performer of the Year Award.”

Oh no. I’ve made a terrible mistake.

 

THE END

Editor’s Note: Sorry this took so long to post. Life got in the way. Jon.TheYellowDart has had this prepared for quite some time now. Welcome to part 4. Look for the thrilling conclusion tomorrow. Then I should be back to posting on Wednesday! I paid for two more years of BTV. I may as well use it!

8-11

Wouldn’t you know it.  Drum roll.  Same music.  But at least Omar.  Oh yeah, his wife’s white?  Totally believable. And she baked him a pie.  And she’s apparently Southern/mentally retarded. At R.’s they’re all laughing about the spatula that Rosie had with her when she came to the door.  Oh no, Omar’s home.  And his wife’s acting suspicious. This Southern accent nonsense is really painful.  Of course Omar’s going to heat chicken.  This is so stereotypical it’s getting hard to watch.  He asked her what she has up her sleeve, but she’s in a sleeveless shirt.  Details, R., come on. Omar’s about to cap some ass. And boom.  Somebody’s in his kitchen closet.  Who might it be? Hell yes.  The R.

Drumrollsamemusicyes.  Omar and whitey arguing. R. manages to make a noise. Omar obviously checks completely retarded places like behind the fridge. Uh oh. The pie has been eaten, but she’s allergic to cherries. Time to check the cabinet.

This is impossible.  R. has now come out of the kitchen closet to reveal that, apparently, he’s not actually there in the tangible sense of this narrative.  He’s just sort of omniscient, I guess?  And he wants us to prepare for the knowledge that is about to be dropped.  He’s talking directly to me. ‘Not only is there a man in this cabinet, but that man is a midget. Midget. (fading) Midget.’

Okay.  That’s insensitive, I think, right? Midget? And even if it’s not insensitive to say midget, it’s definitely insensitive to preface it with ‘What I’m about to tell you is so damn twisted.’ Really?  A midget is twisted? I feel like you might be a prejudiced asshole, R. Kelly.

Drums.  I wonder if, yep.  Drum roll.  And music.  Different this time? Nope.  No, it’s not.  And the midget stomps Omar’s toe.  This is easily the dumbest thing I’ve ever seen.  I’ve seen a lot of things.  Omar keeps ‘roughing up’ the midget.  Another gun.  The midget shits himself.  That bears repeating.  The midget shits himself.  As he’s explaining that someone paid him not to tell what’s going on, he shits his little blue suit.  Omar’s wife calls R.’s house and is talking to R.’s wife, Gwendolyn.  And Omar’s wife Bridget has a goddamn shotgun.  Omar and Bridget are standing off with guns.  Oh great, the midget is asthmatic. He uses an inhaler. Tuan and R. bust into the house.  R. obviously has a gun.  He never doesn’t have a gun.  And there’s a standoff, but it’s put on hold so that R. can point out that it smells like shit in the house.  This is because the midget had earlier shit himself, if I failed to mention that.

Drums. Music. Let’s go. R. says the midget looks familiar, that he might know him from somewhere.  How are you unsure of from where you know a midget? Omar’s gonna blast him.  Tuan is really fixated on the midget having shit himself.  All kinds of guns.  Tuan wants to kill everyone, but fortunately R. has his back as far as avoiding prison goes.  They realize the midget’s name is Big Man.  And they all laugh at him because they’re dicks.  They all say ‘hot mess’ in unison, I guess to degrade Big Man further since the shitting himself didn’t really do it enough. And we learn they call him that because of his big penis.  Now they’re talking about Chuck and Rufus. You remember Chuck and Rufus, right? Wup, doesn’t matter. Bridget’s pregnant. It has to be Big Man’s.  More guns.  And Big Man is a stripper.  Tuan really wants to kill Omar.  Yet more guns. And there it is.  Of course Big Man is the father.  What is this.  Another R. just came out of the kitchen closet.  Two R.’s on screen.  And he’s back in.  Closes it with a woo.

As the reel clipped to black, R. stood from his seat.

“Boom nigga!” he yelled as he did that thing where a guy shoves his face at someone and says something racist.

I didn’t understand.

“Yeah, it sure was” I offered weakly.

“I’mma get some more peyote and lickin frogs.”

He slithered from the room.

I took the opportunity to check my phone.  No reception.  It’s then I knew that I would die here.

R. returned toting a pail of peyote and a laundry basket of frogs.  It would have been too much for the Wu Tang Clan.  We began regardless.

“You sure you can handle the rest?” R. semi-taunted, his voice tinged with as much concern as bravado.

“Of course.  There’s enough peyote here to kill a moose and there are enough frogs down there to kill a moose of equal size to the first moose. I don’t think I’ll be driving or breathing properly anytime soon.”

I thought I caught a glint of fear in R.’s eyes as he pressed Play on the remote and said “Alrighty then.”

12-18

BRING IN THE DRUMS. Way back to Kathy’s house.  Chuck and Rufus.  All day.  They’re fighting.  That’s new.  But man Kathy’s titties are all over the place.  WOW.  That got profane quick.  Chuck was suddenly gonna shank Kathy and she was having none of that.  R. keeps fading in and out of the room like a weird ass ghost. And he’s making phone noises. More fighting.  Rufus puts them on lockdown in the house.  Chuck and Kathy stare.  R. fades in again.  Kathy gets the phone.  Kathy and Gwendolyn are talking on the phone.  There’s no way Gwen knows that Kathy was fucking R.  And then boom.  Kathy figures it out.  But Gwen won’t shut her damn mouth. Rufus is throwing some hate in the background.  Then Kathy throws it down.  That crusty wig wearing ho was me.  NEXT.

Can I get a drumroll? And music. R. and Tuan are in a car.  R. makes Tuan adjust his hat.  Nothing like making sure you look respectable for your fuck-murder fest. Tuan’s ready to kill a girl named Tina. And he’s busy rolling a joint.  ‘Crazier than a fish with titties’ R. says for some reason. That’s perfect.  Time to check on Nosy Rosie.  Her old ass husband Randolph isn’t a fan of her snooping.  Randolph is clearly R. dressed as an old man. They’re fighting. They have an old people fight.  And Randolph says ‘I hope a pigeon flies by and shits on your face.’ It keeps getting more impossible with every chapter. Tuan and R. are trying to collect money from some random girl. And an abrupt end.

Drumsnmusic. Clocks and ticking and stuff. Tuan is asleep in the car.  R. is smoking cigars.  Woman’s legs walking up some stairs.  Moving through the restaurant R.’s in.  She sits across from R. and it’s weird and shady.  It’s Kathy.  They’re talking about some money exchanging and hood rat nonsense.  Damn.  Another R. shows up behind the waitress and fades out.  Of course ‘real’ R. says the waitress looks familiar.  Foreshadowing right? Apparently there’s a big plan underway.  R. knew he was supposed to get caught at Kathy’s.  He was getting paid for it. A cappella waitress section.  And his phone rings again.  He has to calm that shit down.  Put it on vibrate.  Kathy tells R. a story about her man cheating on her.  Tuan dances by himself in the car.  R. is homophobic again.  Some guy with grills calls Tuan about Tina. Of course she’s the waitress. So Tuan has to bust in the restaurant soon.  En Vogue joke.  Nice.  And now it’s time for Tuan to figure it out.  R. figures it out at the same time.  Parallel discovery.  Tina’s losing it to Roxanne about R. Yeah, Roxanne is the other girl who isn’t Tina, just by the way. Tina breaks a bottle on the bar.  It’s shanking time.  Tuan’s here now.  It’s about to go down.  Again.

This thing is just so long.

Tuan and the ‘hos’ fighting about his prison time. R. and Tuan have an aside so R. can remind him of his being on house arrest. More arguing.  I think more than 80% of this has been people yelling at each other in sing talk.  R. brandishes his gun again.  That makes the other 20% R. flashing a gun.  Discussion time.  Tina’s crying.  Tuan’s making threats.  Flashback.  Tuan’s driving while smoking weed and calling himself Rick James. R. takes the girls’ side in the argument because Tuan is a dipshit.  Then Tina starts explaining more.  Tuan was speeding while he was high.  Shit, helicopter. Then they got arrested.  Roxanne admits she gave up Tuan. Then Tina drops the twist for this chapter: she was pregnant with Tuan’s kid at the time. I’m starting to care less than I thought I could about anything.

Drums. Music. R. Tuan denies paternity.  The ladies move to leave.  Tina threatens court.  R. says nope, let’s talk.  ‘Fever blister looking bitch’? I have to remember that.  Tina’s having a fucking seizure.  It’s because a pimp hit her.  Great. R. is telling Tuan to be a father.  It’s pretty ridiculous.  Then Tuan decides, yes, I would love to settle down and avoid a continued life of crime.  As he professes his choice to Tina, Roxanne grabs her, kisses her, and proclaims that she’s fucking her now.  Not surprising at this point.

Drums, music, R. holding a gun to Roxanne and Tina.  And he only spares them because he likes lesbians.  Tuan expresses some more homophobia.  Then he threatens their lives and almost hits them.  But then he gets his coat and leaves.  And that’s it.  No cliffhanger.  A giant let down to say the least.

I will hear these drums in my sleep. Tuan and R. are driving away with Tuan bitching.  ‘The bitch was diking.’  I’m learning all new ways to be offensive.  Gwen calls R., but the phone is static-ing (not a word). They have a really stupid conversation.  Now R.’s in a white suit in a church hallway. YES.  A gospel breakdown.  Despite taking the black community back 10 years, a pretty solid sequence.  It was so alarming to have new music I think I had a stroke.  Rufus is in his church office.  Chuck calls him, crying.  I bet he killed Kathy.  They’re talking about her and Chuck is crying like a motherfucker. Damn. Kathy’s here.  Not dead. And Rufus left his phone on speaker so Kathy can hear Chuck.  They fight. She leaves. Chuck and Rufus fight with some long and wobbling notes held out all soulful and such.  Then Rufus breaks shit off with Chuck just so hard.  And Chuck threatens to go to the news.  Rufus offers to see him and then M. Night Shyamalan. Chuck is in the hospital.

The film clipped to black again.  It was only at this point that I wondered why on earth he had this on film reels, but that was a small detail in a world filled with swirling colors, confusing plot lines, and sin.

R. was fidgeting in his seat, likely from the gross of frogs he’d been mouthlesting nonstop.  After a few more seconds, he started to look like someone with Parkinson’s who isn’t Michael J. Fox cause that guy fucking rules and I won’t make fun of him ever.

I thought he was having a seizure, but suddenly he shot out of his seat like a rocket, snapping to his feet.  He looked as nervous as a white guy in [insert any big U.S. city].

“WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU” he said, more than asked.

I didn’t know how to respond, so I just kind of choked a bit and spit on the floor.

With a howling war cry, R. began sprinting around the room whooping like, I don’t know, a crane? Like a crane.

So, with all the logic I could muster, I got up and went after him.  I chased him for like a really long time I think.  To this day I have no idea why.  After a while, R. just fell down.  So I ran past him, assuming I had won whatever game we just decided to make up.

I scurried back to my seat, shoving the nearest frog the whole way in my mouth because fuck it at this point.

R. returned to his, white as a ghost black guy.  He lowered himself into his seat, still quaking.  I assumed the peyote and frog cocktail mixed with running laps was a poor combination. He turned to me, his eyes wide with anticipation.

“I’ve never even watched this far in.  Are you sure you’re ready?”

“Mmurff” I said, mouth still full of frog.

Spitting it on the ground, I clarified.

“Sure.  Why not?”

19-22

Quick roll.  Music.  R. as an old preacher in my face. He’s talking to another R. dressed as a pimp.  This is some Eddie Murphy shit.  He’s talking about getting pimp Lucius away from pimping. And the choir is helping. But to the same beat. Pimp Lucius, who seems to have a stutter, explains to his pimp-ish friend that he is lying about converting. Then he leaves the church.  And that’s that.  No lead out.

I will surely die to this beat. We’re back at Rosie’s house. Randolph busts in screaming about a package. She ignores him and sits down to watch Wheel of Fortune.  They have a shitty conversation before Randolph tells her about the pastor.  He tells a story and we flash back.  He’s in the pastor’s office cleaning and drinking from a flask. He’s clearly an alcoholic. A second time, a majority of the lyrics are him saying ‘shit.’ Then he gets in a closet, as he must. He overhears the pastor’s conversation with Chuck. He hears that they’re going to meet at the Holiday Inn. Except that Chuck is in the hospital. Rosie goes off to get a phone book because she’s too old to understand cell phones. Randolph goes to sleep.  Another cliffhanger-less chapter. Getting lazy on me, R.

Fade up with some sweet drums.  R. in a white suit, like a dick, leans on Tuan’s car.  But he’s an apparition and not the real R. Tuan and the ‘real’ R. argue about the fact that R. didn’t bring Tuan a suit to wear.  They talk about some other shit. Ghost R. narrates their conversation from the back seat, then disappears. They plan to go to a club and then to some shady place below and meet with some Italian stereotype. The mobsters accuse Tuan of being a cop.  He gets mad.  He sucks in general. Joey the Italian and Tuan get in a shitty fight as he eats spaghetti like all Italians always do constantly. They talk about some old history with R.’s father.  It’s dumb.  Tuan and R. argue some more.  It’s still stupid.  Tuan leaves and R. talks with Joey about a plan to do with a train from Indiana.  Then we watch Tuan fall asleep.  R. says Joey can make a bunch of money.  R. gets another goddamn phone call.  Tuan is out in the hall and, for no good reason, challenges the guard to arm wrestling.  Then R. pulls a gun on Joey as Tuan pulls a gun on the guards.  So we have R. and Tuan each holding handguns to bring our total of times this has happened to: the whole time.  Turns out it was just Tuan’s dream! The worst. R. leaves. To the end.

The final drums roll.  My favorite music begins. Nosy Rosie’s leaving a message on R.’s parents’ phone.  It’s going around the town. Gwen and Kathy talk about it, even though they should hate each other from earlier.  Gwen talks to R. about the package.  Everybody talks to everybody about the package. Omar’s back! I think I can see where this is going. Big Man makes an appearance in a cowboy outfit. That stupid stuttering pimp is back real quick too. Everyone is floating in a little circle talking to each other on the phone about the package.  Then, it says ‘To Be Continued…’ And that’s it.

The film clicked off, ending the most difficult viewing experience of my or anyone’s life.  I began to offer my thoughts.

“So everyone has AIDS, right? I mean I–”

I cut myself short when I saw R.’s face.  The fear was unlike anything I’d ever seen. His eyes were locked to the screen, which had glowed back to life.  The light gathered, growing stronger and stronger each passing second.  The intensity caused the screen’s fabric to begin to shake, generating a progressively deafening rippling sound.  Within seconds, the screen began to tear.  A massive hole tore through the center.  Behind it, infinite darkness.  The shrieks of a million tortured souls seared through the space, engulfing us, pounding through my head with the strength of a supernovae.  I felt my body sever from my soul.  As one became two, I was ripped from the theater, through the hole, and into eternity.

Continued in Part V

**Editor’s Note: If you haven’t read Part 1 and Part 2, do so now! But, remember they only scratch the surface. The true insanity begins to surface right here in Part 3

It took an hour’s worth of navigating around Beverly Hills, wandering among the streets of the rich and famous, but soon enough I was staring at the face of Casa de R. A sprawling Gothic mansion gleaming in the California sun. Expansive windows hinted at vaulted ceilings kissed with the beams of a setting California sun. Did I already use the sun? Fuck. Uh. House was nice. And real big. Anyway.

My borrowed cab skewed halfway across the sidewalk, I approached the oasis of R. Kelly’s porch. Grasping the oddly phallic door knocker, I rang the doorbell because who uses door knockers anymore?

A few seconds passed. I did that thing where you start looking around as if you’re going to notice something new on the porch or somehow look aloof and distracted when the person comes to the door instead of staring lock-eyed on them as soon as they open it. But then, it opened. So I stared lock-eyed into the face of Big Slippery, as I suddenly named him, himself.

We stared at one another for what felt like eternity. Sweat formed on my brow. My breathing quickened. My erection died down a bit.

Then, R. spoke.

“Can I help you?”

His voice was like chocolate syrup dripping onto the body of a recently molested transient.

“Yes. I need to see ‘Trapped in the Closet.’ It isn’t on the Internet because of copyright bullshit and nobody will sell it on eBay because they’re waiting for it to go up in value like Pokemon cards.”

R. was unimpressed and seemingly confused.

I continued “I need to write an article about its content and how–” I paused. “Uh, fantastic it is.” My face muscles ached just from saying it.

“Who do you write for?”

“Mmmrmlbuh ahhemurr” I shuffled my feet.

“What was that?”

I moved on. “I figured if anyone still had a copy of such a *sigh* monumental hip-hopera it would be its creator.” I focused on not bursting a vein in my neck as I let the words sink in.

R. mulled it over.

“What do you need the videos for? Can’t you just get a CD?”

I narrowed my eyes.

“No.”

R. paused, then let out a hearty guffaw.

“You’re alright. I’ve got some peyote and weird frogs that you lick to get high. Come on in.”

He led me through his labyrinth home like an episode of Cribs except tolerable. Past gold tinged furniture, over mahogany floors, I think I saw a diamond studded cat. And the penises. Just so many penises on the statues.

A half mile later, R. opened a set of double doors into a cavernous movie theater.

“You like movies?” I joked, like an asshole.

R. chuckled, then his face turned to stone.

“No. I like me.”

We sat in two leather recliners in the front row. I noticed that all of the seats were leather recliners. To be expected, I guess.

He handed me a frog from a suitcase he had open on the floor.

“Lick this frog and get ready to live.”

To avoid certain rape, I did as he said.

The curtains slid away from the mammoth screen revealing the title card to the first segment of ‘Trapped in the Closet.’

“You just, uh, had that queued up, huh?”

Settling into his seat, R. replied, “Can’t get off without it.”

The lights went down. The screen came to life. My boner came back. It was time.

1-7

Okay. So the music’s in. Pretty generic R&B beat. Oh, there’s a closet. SHIT IT’S R inside. And he’s singing. But kind of talking. Now there’s a black girl. But apparently he doesn’t know who she is? How does someone do that? I bet this is a PSA against meth or some shit . Now he’s trying to leave but she won’t let him. There’s some weird bitching. He’s trying to leave from a 5th floor window. Oh my God. The lyrics were just him saying ‘shit’ a bunch of times. Her husband’s home. This is so awkward. R. is in the closet watching them about to bang. Oh, they bleeped ‘fuck.’ WHAT. His fucking phone just rang in the closet. Are you kidding? Her husband can’t figure out where it came from. This is bullshit. He opens the dresser? Who can fit in a dresser? R HAS A GUN?! Why do you take a gun everywhere you stereotype? Jesus. And that was Part 1. Did you know that was a radio single? Peaked at #22 on the Billboard Hot 100. Way to go America.

Now it looks like a Tarantino film. Strings and a guy pointing a handgun at another. Drum roll. Shit. Same music. More sing talking. Not much rhyming. Not even really a song. Except he’s managing to use the words ‘bogus’ and ‘mack shit.’ Why can’t we handle this Christian-like? And now there’s abuse. This is shenanigans. Plot twist. Oh, here it comes. Pastor husband on the phone. Someone else is coming. He/she must have been close or driving real fucking fast. Oh boy. Build up. Well, it took him over 6 minutes, but there he just said ‘nigger.’ Great, now I’m racist for watching this. Counting. Knock on the door. Oh shit. Here comes the lover. IT’S A MAN. MOTHERFUCKERS BE GAY. I just pray each of these ends with some garbage twist like this.

Strings again. Slow motion. Drama and whatnot. Drum roll. God, same music. Everyone’s in shock. ‘I close my mouth and swallow spit as I think to myself this is some deep shit.’ That’s poetry. Now R.’s impossibly homophobic. He can’t even handle this. 3 minute ultimatum from R. to get the entire history of this bizarre situation he finds himself in. HOLY SHIT THE PASTOR’S NAME IS RUFUS. What could the gay lover be thinking right now? He doesn’t know what’s going on. And R. just shoved him? He should just leave. Ah, now he’s talksinging. HIs name is Chuck. I like Chuck. Now R.’s pointing his gun around like a dick. Great. It seems she told R. her name was Mary, but her name’s Kathy. And that is enough for R. to threaten to shoot everyone. That seems rational. Great, there. He just shot through the ceiling. Now am I supposed to believe that nobody lives above them? He just put a bullet in an elderly lady’s foot, guaranteed. Yes. Another cliffhanger. R. calls home, but a man answers.

Now R’s driving in front of a green screen. Let’s be honest, it looks like shit. And he’s about to get pulled over. And he sang the siren noise. Perfect. JESUS FUCK IT’S OMAR FROM THE WIRE. HOW DID HE GET OMAR. OMAR COMIN! AREN’T THERE ANY CAPS BIGGER THAN THIS?! 20 mph over the limit R? Come on. That’s points on your license Brohemian Rhapsody. Dramatic string pause. Shower titties, but not full on titties. She’s alone. WTF, R? Just her brother Tuan, R., you jackass. So let’s celebrate your lack of trust with sex, she basically says. Piece of shit. Do you think he puts his own music on their stereo before they start fucking? I do. This looks like rape. And he admits he’s trying to give her a baby. That’s just merciless. He’s got a cramp. She’s fucking him into a coma. This sucks. BUT THEN. A condom under the sheet. No one gets out without a twist.

STRINGS. Aaaaaaaaand……… Same music. ‘Fuck’ bleeped again. And again. Casual death threat. ‘Shit’ bleeped. Now he’s like Matlock looking for the source of a cigarette smell. He has his fucking gun in his pants. He had sex with a gun in his pants. Nice work, Plaxico. Now she’s flipping it on him because she caught him cheating the night before. He somehow believes that’s different. It better be a woman she cheated with. That’s the only way this can go. Please. It didn’t. Not a girl. Way better. MOTHERFUCKING OMAR.

R.’s just laughing like a maniac. I think he’s gonna kill her. Now they’re both laughing. And now they’re friends again. What the fuck. He’s summarizing hard. ‘Plus I got a ticket’ he mentions casually in his sing talking (salking?). OMAR’S BACK YES YES YES. He’s gonna kill everything. OH SHIT OMAR’S GONNA SHOOT R. NOW R.’S GONNA SHOOT OMAR. They’re wrestling. And then. BANG. Gunshot.

Drum roll. Same. Music. Omar and R. are staring. Someone’s bleeding. But I have no idea who’s been shot. Oh my God. It’s Tuan. Tuan just got out of prison but now R. killed him because he always has a gun like an asshole. He just rhymed ‘home’ with ‘home.’ Oh, Tuan’s talking. Oh yeah. Tuan’s just gonna clean that shit up in the bathroom. Gunshot wounds and hospitals are for pussies. He doesn’t give a fuck. There’s knocking on the door. But everyone’s already in the house. R. refuses to answer. Omar’s gonna get it. Nope, R.’s gonna get it. But not without a gun. Tuan takes Omar’s gun. They go to the door, guns blazing. It’s an old woman. Rosie the Nosey, I learn. And that’s how we wrap this shit up. Cut to black.

I snapped back to the reality of R.’s theater.

Looking smugly confident, either in his musical prowess or the progressively lessening amount of clothing on his body, R. spoke.

“What do you think so far?”

“Well,” I began, “it’s a thing. A thing I watched. That, for some reason, I’m going to continue watching.”

R. seemed caught off guard.

“Oh you are, are you?”

I looked around, suddenly having a feeling of paranoia.

“Yeah. I mean, I’m here already and if I leave, I’m just going to commit a crime. I’ve had like eight frogs.”

R. still appeared wary.

“Okay. Let’s keep it rollin’.”

Continued in Part IV

If you haven’t read Part I, you really should do that. This won’t make a lot of sense otherwise. Once you’ve finished it, come back. Then it still won’t make sense, but at least you’ll be better prepared.

I had to start by finding R. Kelly’s personal information. Searching ‘R. Kelly’s address’ in Netscape Navigator’s search bar gave me his fan mail address. You can do it too and you’ll know where to send those severed fingers and hair clippings. I noticed that his main fan mail address was in New York, but his secondary was in L.A. I decided that New York’s weather sucks, so he’d better be in L.A. I spent the next nine hours on Hipmunk checking every conceivable travel opportunity to make sure my flight to Beverly Hills wouldn’t break the bank. It was $900. Turns out I don’t know how to do math.

I didn’t pack anything for the trip because where we’re going we don’t need clothes! Halfway through the flight I realized it was roads we didn’t need. Embarrassing.

I deplaned at LAX into gorgeous sunshine, a slight breeze, and an overwhelming sense of self importance from everyone around. He had to be here. I paid a homeless man $6 for a few syringes. This will be important soon.

Outside the airport, I hailed a cab. Remember the syringes I bought from the homeless guy earlier? I stabbed the driver with one and rolled his seizing body out of the car. I didn’t need anyone following me. After a cross-town hell-drive through L.A., as they all are, I found my way to William Morris Endeavor Entertainment in Beverly Hills.

Entering the foyer, I approached what I was forced to assume was the secretary’s desk. The young blonde behind the counter was occupied with some paperwork and failed to acknowledge me. To get her attention I politely stood tall and yelled at the top of my lungs “AAAAAARRRRRRR!!!!!” She jumped back in her seat.

“What the fu– Oh.” She looked at my chest then up at me. “Very funny.”

I realized that my ‘I am a Butt Pirate’ shirt was sending mixed messages.

I tried to remedy the situation. “No, I’m sorry. Not “ARRR” like a pirate.” I gathered my breath and belted again “AAAAARRRRRR!!!!! like R. Kelly.”

“Sir, please stop yelling. Pirate or otherwise, you’re being very loud.”

“Well, if i was a pirate I would have just stabbed you and taken your money.”

“Are you threatening me?” She reached for the phone on her desk. “I’m calling security.”

“No, wait! It was hypothetical. My shirt is a lie. It was just what I was wearing when I bought my ticket to come find R. Kelly and I didn’t pack anything because ‘we don’t need clothes,’ but it was roads and I need to watch “Trapped in the Closet” and there’s a cabbie near the airport who should probably get medical attention.”

She stared blankly.

“Sir, there’s a free clinic a few blocks down. They treat addicts and–”

“No, look. I’m sorry. I just really need to see Mr. Kelly. R. Kelly. The flying guy.”

She patiently explained: “I know who R. Kelly is, but he isn’t here. This is just a talent agency. He’s one of our clients.”

I eyed her skeptically. “So you’re saying he doesn’t live here?”

She eyed me flatly. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

I pressed. “Can you give me his address?”

“Sir. No. Even if I had it, you don’t seem like the kind of person who would do anything good with it.”

“Despite resenting that, I can see your point. Can you at least tell me the name of his agent so I might get in touch with him?”

She mulled the prospect over for a bit. Pulling a binder from under the desk, she sighed. “Sure. His name is Jeff Frasco. He probably isn–”

Before she could finish, I was already sprinting up the stairs, cackling as all R. Kelly hunters should. I had noticed office numbers on the building plaque and knew I would find Jeff Frasco on the 8th floor.

Security reached me at the landing for the 6th. Following a scuffle that was mostly me whimpering and them tackling, I was dragged back to the lobby and unceremoniously tossed to the streets of L.A.

I stumbled about blearily, wiping the tears from my eyes as constant failures are wont to do. The toxic L.A. air permeating my nostrils was soon replaced by a more fragrant scent. Pausing my sobbing momentarily to track its source, I was greeted by the sight of a gentleman hunched before me, adorned with the finest garbage bag.

“Wrrebaggj hoobabidacebbnnnnn” he said.

Once I was able to look past the scraggly beard, glassy eyes, and puke-stained garbage bag, which was the source of the scent preferable to the air, I noticed a Map of the Stars sticking out of his pocket.

“Dearest Earth Scum” I began, “I will give you all of the change in my pockets for that map.”

He vomited.

As he was doubled over, I seized the opportunity to seize the map from his pocket and sprint down the street like Charlie Bucket with my Golden Ticket seized in my hand. Why a hobo with nothing to his name but a rank garbage bag carried a Map of the Stars was not the point.

Turning the corner, my heart was racing. I pried open the map. William Shatner. Gladys Knight (no Pips). Rob Schneider. As soon as I saw his bitch ass name, I knew this had to be it. If he was a ‘Star,’ everyone is a star. A few more names and there he was. R. Kelly.

I hailed the nearest cab, which actually took four phone calls and 25 minutes to find. For a giant city, there just weren’t very many around. Entering the car, I greeted the driver, then stabbed him in the neck with another syringe. You can never have too many syringes.

Continued in Part III

**Editor’s Note: BTV is not quite dead, but I would say it’s definitely on life support (at least until January). Good thing Jon.TheYellowDart is resuscitating BTV for the next few days with his 5-part series documenting, well… I’ll let him explain…

 

We ain’t talkin’ bout the game. We ain’t even talkin’ bout practice.  We talkin’ bout R. Kelly.

Before I even start, let me give you an unbiased history of R. Kelly

 

Ok, great.  Now you know everything you need to know about Robert Sylvester (Stallone) Kelly.  If you need to know more, check out his Wikipedia, the other clearly flawless biographical history of the “World’s Greatest.” A quick glance will teach you that he has won three (3) Grammy Awards.  All in 1998.  All for “I Believe I Can Fly.”

Apart from ensuring us of his avian capabilities, R. Kelly brought to/forced on the world his magnum opus: the 22, count ‘em, 22 part series ‘Trapped in the Closet.”  As of this writing, I have not listened to any of it.  I’ve actually only listened to the Weird Al parody “Trapped in a Drive-Thru,” (about a dozen times) which is a delight, as are all Weird Al offerings. In fact, before reading this, just go watch ‘White and Nerdy.’  It’s just great. That guy is the best.

Did you watch it?

GO WATCH IT.

Anywho.

For the next what I’m sure will feel like millennium, I will watch “Trapped in the Closet” in its entirety in the hopes of learning why it took 22 parts for someone to come get him.

Did he not have a cell phone?

I’m sorry; I imagine it’s deeper than that.

This group of articles is a labor of love.  In reality, I will likely spend twice as long discussing ‘Trapped in the Closet’ as it took R. Kelly to write it. My goal is to try to make the phrase “____ is the R. Kelly of _____” be the de facto standard for saying something is the lowest of the low.  Like “Knees are the R. Kelly of genitals.”  Or “R. Kelly is the R. Kelly of everything.”

A dear, sweet friend of mine drunkenly called another dear, black friend of mine one night to relay what is perhaps the most accurate and profound statement ever uttered about R. Kelly: “When R. Kelly starts a sentence, he doesn’t know how it’s going to end.”

With that in mind, I give you the first in a million (probably) part series:

“R. Youfuckingkiddingme.”

Part 1

I began as one tasked with writing an article about videos should: I sat down to watch the videos I was supposed to write about.  The videos in this case were the first six installments of R. Kelly’s “Trapped in the Closet”  I figured a half dozen videos is enough R. Kelly for one sitting and it only makes sense to start at Part 1.  And if there’s anything I want to be consistent throughout this, it’s things making sense.

Dragging my laptop behind me like a caveman pulling his wife to some miserable cave sex, I sluggishly slid into my seat on the loveseat in my living room.  Pouring a gallon of Jager, I cursed myself for wasting a container when I could have just drank from the bottle.  Stupid.  After spending the next two minutes funneling the Jager back into the bottle, I put the container in the dishwasher and slumped back down on the couch.  Like you don’t have gallon containers in your dish repertoire.  You pompous ass.

To prepare myself for what lay ahead, I drained eight ounces of sinner juice, mumbled hatred against each of the religions’ deities in alphabetical order, and opened the lid to my computer. It’s a Mac, but it’s too soon for a Steve Jobs joke. (I’ve obviously been writing this for a while).  He’s dead is all.  Opening my browser of choice (read: Netscape Navigator) I went to the Wikipedias.  I began with R. Kelly’s Wikipedia article because I wanted to learn all the bullshit I mentioned earlier.  Grammy winner.  Really puts those awards in perspective.  Then I went on to read about “Trapped in the Closet” specifically. Here’s as good a time as any to point out that “Trapped in a Closet” is referred to as a hip-hopera, which is a term you can now use any time you would like burned with a cigarette.

Armed with my newfound R. Knowledge, it was time to watch “Trapped in the Closet: Parts 1-6″  Finding my way to Youtube, I typed in my query, my spirit getting weaker the closer I got to finally seeing the videos.  And then it happened:  ‘This content has been removed due to copyright violation.’

WTF mate?  I changed my search terms around a bit.  Same shit. I changed them again.  Nothing.  Not even an awful fan video of a TV screen recorded with a Handicam while a fourteen year old breathes into the mic.  I knew they existed online since I’d been in my apartment when my roommate and our mutual friend (man lover) watched all 22 parts in what has to be the saddest morning on record outside of the day after Kristallnacht.

So I went to the Googs. I scoured their infinite void. It couldn’t be: No one had it.  I started searching online stores for DVD versions.  Nein.  Was it possible that “Trapped in the Closet” was the Dead Sea Scrolls of music videos?  Does that make R. Kelly Jesus?  I don’t actually know anything about the Dead Sea Scrolls but I always assumed they were Jesus’ diary.

It was either the shock of the situation or the recently finished gallon of Jager, but I started to get lightheaded.  I just couldn’t believe that after months of intentionally not watching these videos, now that I was finally ready, they were nowhere to be found.  Suddenly, I remembered eBay was a thing.  Maybe there was a VHS or LaserDisc version for sale.

Of course not.  Nobody would sell that; it’s too valuable.  In a last ditch effort, I went to Craigslist.  I found four trannies in my neighborhood and have a weird group sex thing scheduled for next weekend, but no videos.

Beginning to accept defeat, I poured another touch (read: half gallon) of Jager.  While wondering just how I had obtained so much Jager and why I had twice wasted containers for no reason, I had a revelation.  The Internet isn’t everybody. People live IRL too.  I could go door to door asking people if they had recorded versions of R. Kelly’s “Trapped in the Closet.” That’s a thing people can do, right?  Solicit others for their old hip-hop music videos?  Is that some kind of rape?  It seems like it would be.  But it might have just come to that.

No. Think.

I didn’t have time to go to every door.  There were at least five I could see from my porch and gathering the courage to see my neighbors in person would take at least the afternoon.  There’s only one door I needed to go to.  There’s only one person who would still have a copy of R. Kelly’s music videos.  One person who loves R. Kelly enough to keep a copy of each of the 22 parts of “Trapped in the Closet.”  The world’s biggest and most vocal R. Kelly fan.  Of course.

R. Kelly.

Continued in Part II.

So I know this is a music blog I run, but I wanna take a post to talk about TV real quick, because I have been tending to watch a lot of TV recently. I just finished season 5 of Dexter so I’m all caught up for the new season, Storage Wars is my drug, and I just recently started watching Beyond Scared Straight.

This post, however, is all about Louie! Louis CK is by far one of my favorite comedians. And he’s not someone I think of as a star. I’d actually like to think of him as more of a friend. He’s so open and honest and it feels like I’ve known the man forever. He works so hard at his craft and it shows through. His show “Louie” is in it’s second season (and maybe just ended?), and it’s become one of my favorite shows on TV. It’s so simple. It’s Seinfeld-esque with a mix of stand up and everyday life, yet it pushes the envelope a but further, much like Louis CK himself. Every episode makes me laugh harder than the last, and between Louie’s self-deprecating humor and “don’t give a shit” attitude, it’ll keep me watching for many seasons to come.

Anyway, to keep this musically related, here’s the theme song from “Louie.” It’s a song from the 70s and to quite honest, I don’t really like it out of context. But for the opening to the show, nothing would fit better.

Stories – Brother Louie (Theme from Louie on FX) [YSI]

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This post’s title is an idea I’m throwing around for another blog, but that’s a-whole-nother story. In this case, I’m talking local to central Jersey. So I’m from central Jersey and a DJ from central Jersey, DJ 609, tells me about a rapper from central Jersey, Roebus One. I figured why not give him a listen. Always good to hear what’s coming out of my home town.

And I gotta say, it’s definitely something different being brought to the table. Limited sampling, heavy lyrics, and overall appealing structure. I’ll keep listening. Below is Roebus One’s first single, “Advent Glorious” off his newest album, Inside the Diorama which released this month on iTunes. He’s also got Reflections of Goodbye from 2009.

I’ll be honest, when I was watching the video, I did not believe that the voice I heard was coming from the man on the screen. Is this good or bad? I really can’t say. But it’s something unique. And sometimes we do just need to through the cookie cutters in the trash and mold it with our hands.

Roebus One, you’ve got me listening. We’ll see what happens from here.

Roebus One – Advent Glorious [YSI]

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Well I’ve MIA for the most part over the past couple months. I hope I can make up for it in one day. I’m gonna try to pound out a number of posts today. I’ve got a piece of paper filled with possibilities. Anyway, tomorrow’s my birthday so consider this my gift to you guys. Here we go.

Post #1 for the day of power posting:

So in my months of absence, I’ve come across some pretty cool music websites. Not blogs, but other unique things. You may have seen them before or you may not have, but hopefully here’s my chance to introduce you to something cool.

First up: Rap Genius

As the growing number of hip hop artists become more and more witty with their lyrics, it sometimes gets harder and harder to follow along. Personally I love the challenge of trying to figure out the metaphor or wordplay. Sometimes I love even more when I get it and no one else does… Luckily for us internet geeks (sorry if by saying “us” I offend you as a reader), there’s Rap Genius, a website dedicated to breaking down the meaning line-by-line of those hip hop songs out there.

One person that this is great for is Childish Gambino. Let’s put it this way: I f***ing love Childish Gambino and can’t wait for his LP to drop now that he’s signed a label. But anyway! Gambino is super witty. He knows his cultural references and puns and can even catch me off guard. I mean like this song:

Childish Gambino – Not Going Back [YSI]

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I mean these lines make me laugh everytime:

Black dudes assume I’m closeted or kinda gay
White people confused like girl on Glee and Gabourey

I was originally going to write this post with all the lyrics but I figured I’d let Rap Genius take of that. Check it here and the rest of Childish Gambino stuff here. Oh, did I mention that Donald Glover (AKA Childish Gambino) is a regular contributor on Rap Genius? Meaning what? All his lyrics are explained 100% and done to Donald’s standards.

Enough of that. Taking a step in a different direction.

Second Site: Mashup Breakdown

Since my main man Mochi Beats has left the world of music and, more specifically mash ups, I had to find someone else. I think I might have a possible candidate in the way of The Abrahammer. I’ve heard some of his stuff and I’m digging it. He’s recently released a new mashup album called “How Dubstep Music Destroyed My Life.” Oh yeah, it’s got nothing to do with dubstep but a whole lot to do with the next site I’m telling you about: Mashup Breakdown.

So I think mashups are a really cool genre of the modern music world because they often boggle my mind. I’m a really visual person and the perfect blending of sound is something I just couldn’t do on my own. Thankfully, I can now SEE what is going on (image below). Mashup Breakdown takes a mashup from Girl Talk to The Abrahammer and SHOWS it to you.

You know what? My words aren’t a good description. Go check it out here with this song:

The Abrahammer - I Usually Drop It Like This

So Danny Dance has been sending his music since the time my blog started and I first posted one of his tracks back in January of this year. Well about 6 weeks ago, he introduced me a brand new concept “album.” 52 cards in a deck, 52 weeks in a year, and 52 great tracks to come.

As Danny describes it:

SDHC represents House Music you can dance to, live to, study to, work to, love to, play to, or do anything else to. It’s music straight from my heart to yours; a year-long love letter to the world. Since there are 52 weeks in one year, each song is represented by one of the 52 playing cards in a deck of cards. You can join in for the entire story and collect all the songs, or just pop in from time to time. Either way, you’ll find quite a few surprises along the way!

So because I am so many weeks behind, I’m giving you all the releases from the first 5 weeks with their descriptions. I won’t be covering this every week so to keep up to date, make sure to sign up for the SDHC newsletter and get all the tracks for free from the SDHC podcast.

Track 01 – Just Me And My Music
Ace of Spades | SDHC House Music Series

“Music is my muse and my inspiration, what keeps me going and keeps me moving, on and off the dancefloor. So “Just Me And My Music” is a fitting intro to my SDHC series. Like the sample that inspired it says, “I don’t want to go alone without you”—in my case, that means music. I hope you’re Listening. ”

SDHC 01 – Just Me And My Music by Danny Dance by Danny Dance

Track 02 – Love Will Pull Us Through
Two of Spades | SDHC House Music Series

“A good love story is filled with pretty times and some that aren’t so, but in the end, love will be there pull you through–especially the Closer you are to one another.  “Love Will Pull Us Through” is a dancefloor reminder that love is more resilient than hardship.  Hang in there.”
SDHC 02 – Love Will Pull Us Through by Danny Dance by Danny Dance

 

Track 03 – Now More Than Ever
Three of Spades | SDHC House Music Series

“Now More Than Ever” takes your senses along a Dynamic journey through a message of hope and love. Now, more than ever, this might be just what we need.
SDHC 03 – Now More Than Ever by Danny Dance by Danny Dance

 

Track 04 – From Streets To Summer
Four of Spades | SDHC House Music Series

It’s the first official day of summer in 2011, so Danny Dance brings you, “From Streets To Summer”.  Crispy hats, get-up-and-dance claps, and a warm bottom end with some Cruel vocals to top things off.  Happy summer!
SDHC 04 – From Streets To Summer by Danny Dance by Danny Dance

 

Track 05 – New York City (Part 1)
Five of Spades | SDHC House Music Series

A tribute to New York City, for everything it’s given to House Music, for inspiring the world to be better, and for respecting the rights of its people, no matter who they love.

SDHC 05 – New York City (Part 1) by Danny Dance by Danny Dance

So I’m pretty sure, no wait, I’m positive that this is not what Kanye meant when he released this song. But it seems oddly appropriate (if you don’t listen to Kanye’s verses…)

But on a serious note, it’s taken me 7 years to really like this song. I’ve always appreciate the work Kanye’s put out. I haven’t always liked it, but certainly always appreciated it. He’s so musically talented that I didn’t even pick up on it at first. And lyrically, well:

We rappers are role models we rap we don’t think
I ain’t here to argue about his facial features, But here to convert atheists into believers
I’m just trying to say the way school need teachers
The way Kathie Lee needed Regis that’s the way I need Jesus
So here go my single dog radio needs this
They say you can rap about anything except for Jesus
That means guns, sex, lies, video tapes
But if I talk about God my record won’t get played Huh?

Kanye West – Jesus Walks [YSI]

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