Let's Not Talk About Slapping Hoes

I’m going to admit something to you, and you’re going to judge me.  I want you to know that your judgment cannot permeate this tough, rugged exterior. I’m tough as nails, bitches, and you can keep your raised eyebrows and audible sighs to yourself.

Actually, no, wait. Please share them. I’m a sucker for a little abuse. (Ok. Seriously? Two posts in a row that talk about punishment and/or abuse? This is a whole new side to this blog. I don’t know about you guys, but I’m excited.)

Ok, where was I? Oh right.

I love hip-hop.  Seriously. I love it. 

I love how offensive it is; I love that it makes no sense, I love that it makes grown men make silly rhymes and pronounce words like ‘baby’ as ‘babay’ because it’s more badass. I love that grillz exist. 

I love that wearing a Band-Aid on your face can be cool. I love that even in all of my pasty-white glory, I get an obscene amount of joy out of shaking my ass like a poorly-endowed Beyonce while whipping my hair and making milkshakes. (We’ve talked about my dancing before. If you missed it, you can read about it here. I’m available for back up dancing anytime. Inquire inside.)

But my favourite thing about hip-hop is, hands down, the lyrics.

The beats are catchy, they’re hypnotic and they’re distracting.  That last one was the most important. By distracting listeners with make-your-hips-move beats, those motherfuckers can say anything they goddamn want to. They can tell me that they like fluffy pink slippers and sipping earl grey in their mom’s Jacuzzi, and it’ll sound fucking badass if it’s accompanied by a dirty beat and some sexy auto-tuned bitch singing about hundred dollar bills and private jets. And guess what? I’ll eat it all up with a giant fucking spoon because I love it all so much.  

Don’t get me wrong, sometimes the lyrics are hard to miss. They’re in your face like Christina Aguilara’s tits, and sometimes I’m okay with that. (The lyrics, not the tits. Ms. Aguilara needs to put those puppies to bed.)  Geniuses, such as the always-sexy Snoop Dogg, make no apologies for their disgusting, offensive, crude rhymes that make me want to shield old ladies’ ears. 

To say the very least, this dude is not subtle. Here is an excerpt from one of my latest favourite songs.

Disclaimer: It’s fucking poetry.

Can you be my doctor, can you fix me up?

Can you wipe me down, so I can lick you up?

Make you give it up, give it up 'til you say my name

Like a jersey, jersey, shittin' down the game

Make it, make it, make it wet

I wanna get you wet

Tell tell me, baby, are you wet?

I just wanna get you wet

Wet, wet

I can’t be 100% positive, but I’m pretty sure Snoop wants to make someone’s vagina wet.

I might be misreading this and making some pretty lewd assumptions, but that’s a risk I’m willing to take.

Oh, Snoop, you sly dogg, you.

(See what I did there?)

The other great facet of hip-hop lyrics includes what I like to call ‘quick rhymes’. Awesome rappers do it effortlessly. They rhyme itch, bitch, witch, switch, snitch and junkwich* like no one’s business and you can’t even question it because they’re fucking pros.

*Why yes, junkwich is, indeed, short for ‘junk sandwich’. I’m glad you asked.

This song by the ever-talented David Guetta (Feat. Taio Cruz) is a great example of this kind of rhyming brilliance.  I never would have thought to rhyme stackin’ with slappin’. I’ll leave it to the professionals.

She got my heart jumpin'

And my adrenalin pumpin' and gunnin'

Like ain't nobody ever seen (seen seen seen…)

As a matter of fact I've seen this woman all up in my dreams

Whippin' and flippin' and stackin' and slappin'

I'm attacking after she back it up and make it DROP (Drop drop drop…)

I don’t know about you guys, but I’ve never seen a woman all up in your dreams whippin’ and flippin’, but now I’m feeling like I’m missing out on some pretty valuable life experiences.  To say the least, this is a new life goal.  Makin’ mama proud, one dream at a time!

I’m 90% sure that some of you are probably closeted rappers. Maybe only when you’re shitfaced, and maybe only when you think no one is home, but regardless, you rap the shit out of a beat and you drop it like it’s hot.

With this in mind, I’d be interested to know if any of you have any real rapping abilities. I’d request a recording and/or video, but I realize that’s probably a lot to ask and none of you love me enough to do such a grand gesture of awesomness. (Why yes, I am using guilt to get you to do something. Is it working?) IF you don’t love me enough for that, but still want to show off some of your skillz, share some of your rhymes below! I will be forever indebted to you for the joy and entertainment it will bring me.

*Disclaimer: If you wish to leave a comment, it doesn’t have to rhyme, but, you know, you’d be a lot cooler if it did rhyme. But it’s your life. These are your choices.

***

Some of you participated in my last post’s word challenge.

I want you to know that each and every one of them made me giggle to myself in public like a drunk schoolgirl.

One in particular took the cake. I’m probably biased because it mentioned boobs.

Join me in giving a round of slaps to Méthodique Boisson of Scientific Facts... I just made up!

The winning submission:

"When I think about side-boob, it penetrates my brain until I want to rub myself so much it almost feels like punishment."

I recommend reading all of the comments, though, because you guys are flippin’ brilliant.

Sexual Chairs and Dumb Faces

I’ve been a very bad blogger.

No, that wasn’t a cue for you to get out your paddle and punish me for being neglectful and lazy. Ok, maybe it was, but you’re all the way over on the other side of the internet, so I’ll have to punish myself.

(Side note: Dear god, ‘punish’ sounds so sexual. Much like the words ‘penetrate’ and ‘rub’. I dare you to use all three in a sentence. GO!)

I’ll admit that summer takes away a lot of my normal ‘free time’ that I spend blogging. (read: I actually get off the couch to go outside when it’s nice outside, so I’m not on the computer all the goddamn day.)  I thank you for putting up with my unreliable blogging behaviour. If you’re ever in my neck of the woods, tequila shots are on me. If you show me your boobs.

It will come as no shock to you to hear that I’ve been steadily shaving years off of my liver.  Toronto Pride happened a couple weekends ago, and I think I heard my insides crying while I made sweet love to the porcelain gods and I prayed for sweet salvation. (In other words, I spent a day throwing up street meat and vodka. It was dreamy. I can tell you’re jealous.)

Lots has happened in my world as of late, and I thought I’d make a little list of important mentionables.  Think of this as our personal little update huddle time. No farting please. (Oh god, did I just make a fart joke? I must be rusty.)

10 Things Worth Mentioning (In No Particular Order)

1)      Technology is not indestructible, despite what you may have heard from Arnold Schwarzenegger. While my Blackberry put up a good fight, it eventually had to accept defeat.  (I dropped my Blackberry off of my balcony on the 24^th floor. Suffice it to say, it did not survive the fall. WHADDUP iPhone.)

2)      Eating almost an entire carrot cake before bed, will make you have crazy dreams about tremendous poops and breakdancing. Not necessarily in that order.

3)      Instagram brings out your inner hipster, even if you don’t want it to. It’s like the STI of apps. You didn’t want to admit you’re a goddamn whore, but the warts are there, slutpup, so embrace it and move along.

4)      I spend a lot of time in the sun, but I’m still really pasty with the exception of my feet. Fact: Tanned feet will bring all the boys to your yard.

5)      If you tell a Starbucks barista that your name is Brittany, there is a high likeliness she will decide you’re better suited to another name.

6)      Channing Tatum has the dumbest face of all the faces.

7)      In related dumb face news: Someone decided that Anne Hathaway could sing and pull off a buzzed head. As far as I’m concerned, it was probably dumb Channing’s face who made that call. Regardless, she shat all over my favourite musical of all time. Seriously guys, the world might be over.  Stay tuned.

8)      Shopping in the USA is ridiculous. All of the allegations of Target’s almighty power were not even remotely hyperbolized. I was so tantalized by the deals I may or may not have purchased a solar-activated waiving Queen. Don’t judge.

9)      Don’t tell your dental hygienist you work in investments. You will have to sit there and hear about her investment decisions and you can’t do a goddamn thing about it because the bitch has her hands so far in your mouth, she may as well be filming it to make a profit.  In related news: investments are boring, but dentist chairs are very sexual. Who knew?

10)  Banana popsicles were sent to earth by the Gods of Mouthgasms.  Now I just need to find a way to add vodka to them. Please provide suggestions below.

I have lots of catching up to do on your wonderful blogs. I hope that you will remain patient with me and my douchebaggery. I promise to be much more reliable in the near future. There is just far too much sangria to be consumed and not nearly enough hours in the day to do so.

A small piece of advice: Vodkarade is your friend. Until it’s not.

CHEERS!