The Illuminati Runs the Rap Industry: A Valuable Lesson

As an educator, I firmly believe that there is new knowledge to be gained every single day.  Too many people, however, ignore all that the world has to offer them.  We choose to watch Honey Boo Boo when we could be watching the History Channel.  This is not a judgment because I love me some Mama June making up ‘sketti’; it is just an accurate observation of the American majority.  If an individual allows himself to become more consciously open and observant, there is much to be learned.  For example,  I just learned that the illuminati are trying to take down the rap industry.  I now impart this crucial piece of information onto you. 

Such information was recently brought to my attention when a student in study hall inquired about my musical interests.  “Hey, do you ever listen to rap music?” the young male in the Kobe Bryant tee asked me. 

“Like what? DMX?”  I returned his question with another.

“DMX?!?” he practically shouted in disgust at my time warped inquisition.  He chuckled at me while continuing, “that stuff is so old.  No one listens to DMX these days.  Oh my god.”

He did recognize the name DMX though, as we then sang a couple verses of“Party Up” together.  You all gonna make me lose my mind – up in here – up in here – you all gonna make me act a fool.  He then explained to me that DMX has had so many legal issues, including (but certainly not limited to) animal cruelty, reckless driving, rape, menacing, cocaine possession, criminal impersonation, and more because the illuminati has been framing him. People – this man is just an innocent victim of a secret society and you must be aware of this!  Your soul depends upon this knowledge. 

“The illuminati?” I questioned, while simultaneously rolling my eyes at this seemingly ridiculous claim.  “Like Dan Brown Angels and Demons illuminati?”

“Yes. No. Wait. What,” he stumbled to respond, “Who is Dan Brown?” Now – c’mon! I knew who DMX was, so why shouldn’t he know who Dan Brown is? These damn kids today!

Doubt was clearly written all over my face, and this student was adamant in his claim and need to defend the good character of  DMX.  “Hold up. Hold up,” the young man spoke with strange agitation and commitment regarding the innocence of DMX.  He pulled his i-pod from his jean pocket and began scrolling through the touch screen with his index finger.   Finally, he had located what he was feverishly searching for.

“Imma prove it,” he said, “Do you know who Rick Ross is?  He knows.  You need to listen to this.”

He then played me a sweet little ditty by Rick Ross, which absolutely should not have been played in school.  I’m fairly certain I heard both “bitch” and “fuck” before finally reaching this crucial line of the song “Holy Ghost”: “they say I’m gettin’ money; must be illuminati.”

Yes. This clarified everything for me.  That was sarcasm; that cleared up nothing and just led me to believe Rick Ross should have been in my Creative Writing class so that he had better rhyming skills.  Now, if you’ve been following me, or know me in real life, you know I have a curious mind that never, ever, ever stops running.  So, naturally I googled the shit out of Rick Ross, DMX, and the illuminati.

Apparently, Rick Ross has been trying to recruit the formerly incarcerated DMX to his label, but DMX declined.  In an interview with Vibe magazine, DMX shared, "I respect him as an artist, but he got that whole illuminati thing going on.  I don’t really know what that’s all about, so this [his decline of the offer] might be a good thing.”   Ross would also like to recruit others to the illuminati, and this is alluded to in his “Free Mason” lyrics.

 

 

Through further research, I discovered several theories that suggest the vast majority of the rap industry, and pop musicians, became famous by selling their souls to the illuminati and have now become mere “poppets” of these people in exchange for money and fame.  This actually makes a little sense.  I have often wondered why Miley Cyrus and Justin Bieber were so wildly popular.  If you look here, you will see that they are among those artists potentially linked to the illuminati.

Many artists sacrifice more than they are aware of, and this is why they often lose people close to them at the peak of their career.  Consider Kanye West and his mother.  Now I’m gonna let you finish, but uhm … Beyonce had one of the best videos of all time.  This brings me to the fact that Jay-Z is also associated with the illuminati. Lil’ Wayne also confesses his association when he admits he no longer has a soul in the lyrics “when I look at the mirror in the morning, I don’t see anything.”  If I listened to Lil’ Wayne, I would have interpreted this more like a literary analysis and believed it alluded to his loss of self-identity given the influx of fame.  No, no, no, my friends.  This means he’s a demon of sorts. I mean, vampires have no reflection, right?  Lil’ Wayne is a fucking monster.  I thought this anyway, but no … literally, a monster … not just an ass.

You probably also thought, as I did, that “Slim Shady” was a nickname or moniker for Eminem.  Again – you have been fooled by a secret occult society of pop superstars and money hungry whores.  “Slim Shady” is actually the name of the demon that has come to possess the man who made Rihanna sing “I love the way you lie.” And --- yes --- you assumed correctly; Rihanna is also associated with the illuminati.

So, my student wasn't entirely correct; the illuminati actually run the rap industry rather than trying to take it down.  And here I thought he was just a kid talking some nonsense; what a fool I have been.  I am so thankful he straightened my ass out.  From this same student I further learned that Tyler the Creator  signed a contract with Lucifer himself in order to gain his fame.  I would tell you who Tyler the Creator is, but I have no fucking idea and I have already wasted enough valuable time researching this nonsense.  You’re welcome.  And if you knew all of this years ago, fine … you are clearly cooler than me, or you have also taken allegiance with Satan.

I would like to remind you that I live in the “middle of butt-fucking nowhere,” so there’s a lot of news that I stumble upon well behind the times.   I’m still wearing Jordache jeans and tossing my hair in a side pony tail.  Don’t judge; I’m just geographically disadvantaged.  However, this may serve me well as it makes it more difficult for the illuminati to locate me, which I am certain they will be doing upon publication of this post.  Please send prayers and crucifixes if you know where I live, but don’t give my address to any members of the occult even if they promise to get you a deal on Rick Ross’ label. 

  

Does Everyone Remember When I Shit my Pants?

My husband’s fifteen year high school reunion is coming up this next weekend.  I am still undecided as to whether or not I wish to accompany him.  I skipped my own fifteenth, despite the fact I had volunteered to help plan this event (I was drunk when I did that).  I did still offer to make buttons.  No one wanted buttons, so I stayed at home with my weird collection of craft supplies like the noted button maker and my bedazzler.

A little bedazzling, some glitter, or even some balloons might each have made my ten-year reunion better.  That event was just awful (Sorry, Tim).  There was no music, the meal was sub-par, and worst of all … we fucking ran out of beer.  I suppose our class president could claim that he attempted to entertain us.  He did put together a photo slideshow.  However, the large majority of the highlighted photos were not even of our graduating class.  There were photos from his sister’s wedding, his boastful hunting moments, and even his surgery.  I am completely serious.  This is why I later offered to create the slide show for a future reunion, sharing with our class president “… and it will feature lots of pictures of my vagina.”  Yeah, I always keep it classy folks.

Whenever a reunion or homecoming of any sort becomes the subject of conversation, I return to the question of how I may be remembered.  A former student once told me, after his mother met me at parent teacher conferences and realized we had gone to school together, “My mom said you use to do a lot of drugs – like you were a total burn-out.  I didn’t want to tell you that right away though because I really wanted to be selected for debate team captain.”

If you have been following me, however, you know this is not true.  I never touched a drug in my adolescence.  Most of my classmates, and probably my teachers, just assumed I was smoking or snorting something because I dressed like a damn weirdo, and I also once brought some imposter pot to school.  (You’ll have to check out the back catalogue of blog posts for more on that.) I used to wear dark sunglasses and lots of hats with big, bright flowers on them; I must have wanted to be like Blossom Russo (random Mayim Bialik reference). 

These days, whenever a friend begins a story like, “Do you remember Jakob from Algebra? Well, I ran into him at Wal-Mart and …,” I find myself replying with the general response of, “Oh yeah.  Isn’t that the kid who …?” and I am usually able to recall only one random and bizarre memory of that individual. You guessed it – here come a few of those random recollections.

There was a kid named Brandon in my graduating class.  As rumor would have it, one afternoon he crapped himself on the indoor track because he was afraid to ask his coach for a bathroom break.  This must have been the crowning achievement of his adolescence for once, in the middle of our psychology class without having been prompted in any way whatsoever, he announced, “Does everyone remember when I shit my pants on the track?”

In that same class, on a different day, a student named Bill erupted into maniacal laughter and became completely flushed and red-faced during a lecture that briefly mentioned cock fighting.  Our teacher calmly and simply said, “Well … I see someone just woke up and heard the word cock.” My dear friend Melissa, always so kind and considerate, patted Bill on the back and said, “Settle down there, buddy, settle down.”

I once overheard a kid named Joe (I think – maybe Kevin) bragging to his friends by the water fountain.  What was he bragging about? – you ask.  Fucking his horse.  He was honestly boasting about a claim that he fucked his horse.  So, here’s how a conversation about Joe would go:  

Melissa: Did you know Joe (or Kevin – whatever) is living in the twin cities now?

Me: Joe who?

Melissa: We graduated with him.  He was in our geography class.

Me: I think I might remember him …. (brain silently scurrying)

Melissa: Well, he has three beautiful children now and he ….

Me: Gross! I remember! That kid fucked his horse!

With individuals I don’t know as well, I frequently have to refrain from sharing my one strange memory aloud.  For example, one of my former co-workers was once talking to me about a teacher recently hired in a neighboring school district.  She said, “Actually, I think you might know him.  He probably graduated a few years after you.”  When she told me his name, I bit my tongue to avoid replying, “Oh yeah, that’s Backdoor Brian.”  Rumor with this one was that he frequently convinced his girlfriends to have anal sex.

Then, of course, one must not forget the girl who stuck a hot dog in her “biscuit”  (actual meat product, slang vagina – thank you Honey Boo Boo) and had to get it removed by a doctor after it broke in half.  For the life of me, I cannot remember that girl’s name, despite the fact that I also worked with her during high school and she once told me she wished her boyfriend cleaned his ass better because he always left shit streaks on the sheets when she was on the top during intercourse.   I promptly placed that bit of information in my shit I didn’t really need to know file.

Given such awful associations, I often wonder – what is that one random thing I am remembered for?  So, if you’re a former classmate that I probably spoke all of thirty words to in real life and am now virtual friends with, please leave your comments! You can also let us know if you recall any of these same special individuals mentioned here.  It might be best if no one lets Brandon know, all these years later, that he is still the kid who shit his pants.  Oh yes, we remember Brandon; we remember.

 

 

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(Above image circa 1994.  It's no surprise everyone thought I was high.)

Here Comes the End of Civilization

I was sorely disappointed when I only got one “like” for the following facebook status: “I’m adding Sugar Bear to my short list.”  I can only assume that most of my facebook friends aren’t watching Here Comes Honey Boo Boo.  If you are reading this now and you’re not watching this show yet either, you need to be watching that shit.  It’s so wonderful that one television critic even referred to it as “the end of civilization.”  With a claim like that, viewers are bound to be at least a little bit curious.

Whether your curiosity has been peeked or not, I’ll give you a brief breakdown on Honey Boo Boo.  This intellectually stimulating program is a spin-off of Toddlers and Tiaras, where viewers first met the oddly adorable six-year-old Alana, an overweight glitz beauty pageant contestant fully loaded with spunk and sass. The show gained its title when this six-year-old declared, with full head tilt and finger snap, “a dolla make me hollah honey boo boo child.” 

Alana also makes reference to her go-go juice, a cocktail of Mountain Dew and Red Bull, hopefully enabling her to win the ultimate grand supreme.  Don’t blame Mama too quickly though.  Despite the distribution of this beauty queen blend, Alana’s mother June is shockingly calm in comparison to most pageant mothers. Have you seen these women?  Bitches be crazy.  One mother was pumping her daughter full of sugar cubes like they were crack cocaine.

I realize that at this point, you may still be wondering, “But who the hell is Sugar Bear?” Sugar Bear is Alana’s father, a soft-spoken, poorly groomed, self-proclaimed redneck of seemingly low intelligence, but who also possesses incredible patience.  Unfortunately, I’m probably not Sugar Bear’s type because I don’t have “forklift foot.”  Again, you need to be watching this shit.

Truth be told, Sugar Bear is not on my list.  I said that because I’m a bitch … and for the likes of course.  My tendency to be a bitch is the same reason I enjoy watching this show; my husband says I suffer from “Bitch Tourette's” (very PC, I know).  So, for some awful, elitist reason, laughing at these people that seemingly have a less fortunate life than mine entertains me.  At least I can admit to that.  If these were my actual neighbors, I might feel worse for judging them for participating in an activity called “The Redneck Games,” which involves such activities as bobbing for pig’s feet.  Might. But the fact that I don’t really know these folks, and they’ve put their simultaneously hilarious and disastrous lives on television, allows me to fictionalize them so I don’t feel as bad when I find it funny that going to the Old Country Buffet is considered a romantic evening.

So, Sugar Bear is not on my short list because I would at least expect to be taken to the Olive Garden.  I excuse you if you didn’t initially know who Sugar Bear was, but if you’re still wondering what a short list is, I’m wondering how you grew up. Were you not exposed to the world? Did your parents keep you held up in their basement? Did you grow up on a diet of pancakes and pizza, as those were the only food items they could slide under the locked door? 

If you’re not yet doing so, you also need to be following me as you can expect to soon be enlightened regarding the short list … with more than you want to know.  Stay tuned.

And check out the show here: http://tlc.howstuffworks.com/tv/here-comes-honey-boo-boo