#TeamBlaria! I’m back in the lovely land of NYC! How I missed y’all while I was away in Portland, OR at the the Bridgetown Comedy Festival. The fest was great. I did fun shows, checked out awesome comics like Dana Gould, Ron Funches, and Cameron Esposito; and took full advantage of farting into furniture cushions that don’t belong to me. #Success. Anyhoo, a new week is here, so I’m dropping some new Blaria. Today, I’m bringing an episode of the Blaria Podcast with guest Kevin Barnett. I wanted to have some new writing for y’all, but I didn’t get into town until 10pm last night and while I was in Portland, I was busy doing shows and writing assignments for Glamour.com, so alas, I gots nada. New written post will go up tomorrow. In the meantime check out my convo with one of the stars of MTV2′s Guy Code Kevin B. as we discuss how he got the nickname “Fat boy,” doing comedy on the road (including shitting on people, not literally, but verbally) and dating. Check out our convo after the jump!
Happy Wednesday, y’all! I know I normally post my podcasts on Thursday, but I’m going to be flying to Portland, OR, most of tomorrow as I’ll be performing at the 6th Annual Bridgetown Comedy Festival. Whoop! I had a blast last yurr and I’m hoping this year will be just as good if not better. Anyway, enough about me. It’s all about today’s guest, Chris Lamberth, a funny comedian, whom I have known for a while. Like most of my relationships with comics, we met in person, but thanks to Gchat, our relationship has thrived. But I wanted some more human interaction with Chris, I had him come by my day job, so us two movie nerds could geek out in person. I swear, this podcast is just an excuse for me to see people I rarely see in person. Thanks, technology! Anyhoo, check out the convo after the jump!
“She might move on to rappers and ballplayers/But we all know I hit it first…I had her head going north and her ass going south/But now baby chose to go West.” ~ said person who breathes oxygen and takes of dumps with the bathroom door open because he enjoys a nice spring breeze caressing his ankles AKA Ray J (I mean, really, am I going to pretend to label him as a rapper or actor or anything that has the semblance of being a job? No, I shall not) as he bragged about how he had sex with Kim Kardashian before her current beau and father of their soon-to-be-born baby, Kanye West, did on the song I Hit It First.
Ray J, the world is not your momma and your dick is not a ten-year-old child who just defeated all the Koopa Troopas for the first time in Super Mario World; therefore, we are not going to take you to Chuck E. Cheese for a pizza party simply because you spooged in a woman. You are thirty-two years old. Please understand that your peen with will go in and out of holes and that action will be treated as unceremoniously as one treats a pile of folded laundry. Clearly, you think differently; otherwise, you wouldn’t have released this song. But I’m here to tell you that despite how “cool” or “edgy” you think you’re being for putting out I Hit It First, you’re actually being fifty shades of trifling.
#TeamBlaria, it has come to my attention that country singer Brad Paisley and rapper/actor LL Cool J pressed the snooze button on their common sense by teaming up to do a song about race relations that has the intellectual complexity of grade school children. In short, Accidental Racist‘s message of “I’mma white dude from the South and golly gee, racism is kinda cray cuz I have to think about shit and instead of being ig’nant all the time. This. Is. Hard. For. Me,” is a steaming pile of gorilla doodoo. And for LL Cool J to co-sign this buffoonery like it’s a bank loan for his starter home makes ask the Lord to give me the strength of squirrel monkey holding onto a mango not to slap the shit out of LL Cool J’s dad’s balls for creating a person who would not only agree with Paisley’s sentiments, but also contribute an atrocious verse to the song. If you haven’t gotten a chance to peep the ridiculosity of Accidental Racist, don’t panic, because this lil negress is going to give you a Blaria-fied breakdown of the this five minutes and forty-two second song. Let’s get to it, shall we?
Rick Ross, The World Probably Would’ve Been Better Off If You Ended Up a Hanes Sock Instead of Being Born27 Mar
“Put molly all in her champagne/ She ain’t even know it/ I took her home and I enjoyed that/ She ain’t even know it,” ~ rapper Rick Ross boasting about date raping a woman during his guest verse on Rocko’s song U.O.E.N.O. (You Ain’t Even Know It).
#TeamBlaria, I literally don’t know where to begin. I’m bubbling over with rage and disheartenment: I wanna throw up dub (aka double) middle fingers in the sky like it’s the Batman signal in hopes that Ross will see it and know how truly I’m pissed off I am on behalf of all vagina havers, yet at the same time, I want to call his mom and have a heart-to-heart like the kind you see in a Dolly Parton movie where one conversation (infused with Southern wisdom) over a glass of lemonade and cheddar dill biscuits resolves everything. Unfortunately, we know that one conversation isn’t going to undo nor solve the problem that is illustrated in Ross’ verse. Several conversations need to happen – why is bragging about rape socially acceptable, why was this song even allowed to be released, what goes on in a person’s mind to think that bragging about rape is cool and not horrifying, why some people will listen to this song and not even blink an eye at Ross’ lyrics – and they need to happen constantly in order to fix the disturbing mindset that people like Rick Ross have. It’s a serious problem. So to those people who are like, “Take a chill pill! It’s just music,” I’m going to say to you what I say to my boyfriend when he tries to wake me up in morning via boner to my back:
This is not music. This is not hip hop. This is not acceptable. It’s trifling that people are listening to and buying U.O.E.N.O. because it’s message is packaged with a nice beat; therefore, it’s somehow okay. Um, no, it’s not okay.
#TeamBlaria, today I should be throwing my winter beret up in the air Mary Tyler Moore style because unlike the straight haired mofos, I can let my hair get wet during the current snow shower without worrying about it looking like a hot mess afterwards, but instead, I’m sitting at my desk, composing a spoken word poetry entitled Bitch, You Are Blackity Black Black Despite Trying To Pretend As Though You’re Lighter Than The Brown Paper Bags That I Carry MY Groceries In. Yes, that title does not roll off the tongue, but it’s what I’m feeling right now. So what the h, e, double hockey sticks did Devyn do to make me so damn upset? She participated in a challenge on The Face, in which she and fellow contestant, Ebony, had to walk the red carpet in evening gowns and do a mock interview with resident pot stirrer and talk show host Wendy Williams. Off to the side, supermodels Naomi Campbell and Karolina Kurkova and representatives from ULTA Beauty, the largest beauty retailer in the US, were judging the proceedings. And that’s when Devyn rolled her foot in some panko breadcrumbs then deep fried it in a vat of ignorance, and inserted it into her mouth:
Look, normally when people say ignorant things on camera, I usually respond with a combo of glee and slight embarrassment on their behalf like when I order an eight piece chicken McNuggets and the cashier accidentally gives me ten:
I’m like, “Oh, shit! This bitch can’t count,” and then like a drug mule going over the US/Mexico border, I immediately shove the two extra nuggets (wrapped in condoms, obvs) in my mouth before I leave Mickey D’s, so I don’t get caught with them. The point is that people saying ridic things on TV is usually funny and of little consequence. However, when someone like aspiring model Devyn engages in high level ig’nance by stating that she’s not a black model because she’s fair-skinned, I straight up reacted the way I do when someone I just met calls my best friend her best friend:
Like, really? You’re not a black model because you’re fair-skinned; therefore, you have an “international” look? Listen, heaux, you ain’t fair-skinned; you’re about as dark as the duvet cover that I purchased from Macy’s, which by the way, when I ordered it online, the color that was listed was BROWN and not “International Cuz I Want White People To Like Me & Be My Fwend” because Macy’s isn’t rolling in the deep in self-hate fuckery and neither should you, Devyn. It’s sad and it sends the wrong message to every single black girl all over the world, who from the time she is born and until the day that she dies, has to deal with colorism. So please spare me the b.s. you’re spewing on Twitter, claiming the show edited your words to make you come off that way. Please stop non-apologizing by saying that you’re sorry people were offended. And please stop looking for support because the fact remains that while in the presence of two beautiful dark-skinned black women (Ebony & Naomi) and in possession of the knowledge that the fashion industry is notoriously racist towards women of color, you had the audacity to state how you really feel, which is that what makes you more appealing or stand out is that you’re not really black because you’re fair-skinned, which in the African-American community, we all know is a coded way to separate yourself from the “regular” black girls. To imply that white is right and that the closer you are on the spectrum to white, then the righter you might be, right? Wrong.
While Justin Timberlake has never been an automatic panty dropper for me, I’d at least unbutton my shirt Eurotrash style, so one could see my chesticles and then I’d put some Vaseline on them, so they’d have a nice sheen like the glossy side of the poster board I’d use for my middle school science class presentations. Point is, even though I don’t want to go half on a baby with him, I’m into him. To clarify, just the musical and SNL sides of him; his acting in movies is pretty much “meh” for me. But his music, in particular his solo work, I’ve always enjoyed, so I must admit that when JT announced that he was ending his seven year long hiatus from music with the upcoming release of The 20/20 Experience, I reacted to that news the way I do when my seven day no-carb diet ends:
Straight up, listening to music for free is the closest I’ve gotten to dancing the Holy Ghost. Suffice it to say, I was in good spirits when I started listening to JT’s album. but when it was over, I was hella disappointed in it. #RealTalk, this album is nothing but JT reenacting every black mom in America when her chillrens mistake her pausing as a sign that she’s done reprimanding them when she was just momentarily distracted because she saw a 2-for-1 sale on bean pies at the neighborhood store. She immediately refocused when she saw her kiddies started to walk away from her and said:
aka all these songs are too damn long. Seven, eight minutes a pop is too much. Not that a song can’t be that length. Legendary artists and bands have released songs that long and they were well-received. But on 20/20, I feel like he’s holding the listener captive with his self-indulgence and the musical choices that were exciting on FutureSex/LoveSounds seem paint-by-the-numbers (maybe work with other producers than Timberland?) this time around. Furthermore, JT practically sings in non-stop falsetto on 20/20. Don’t get me wrong, like most peeps, I love it when a dude saaangs in falsetto, but by the time I reached the halfway mark of this album, I asked myself, “Did this mofo’s testicles not drop? I mean, why the hell is his voice high as the bouffant hairstyles at a southern beauty pageant all the damn time?” In short, it’s too much of a good thing. Anyway, I know a lot of people are ready to crown this album as his comeback to the music world, but I have to say this was a rather lukewarm effort. So let’s break down The 20/20 Experience track by track, shall we?
What I’m about to say may sound a tad creepy, but here goes. My uterus oven is not preheated to 375°with the hopes of some baby batter aka jizz being inserted in it, but every time I see lil miss Quvenzhané Wallis being interviewed, I feel like a proud mama and wish I had a lil Quvenzhané of my own. Ever since I saw her wonderful and touching performance as a six-year-old girl named Hushpuppy who struggles to survive in post-Katrina New Orleans with her father, I’ve read and watched every interview she’s done and been bowled over by her charm. And I’m not the only one who feels this way. Today‘s Tamron Hall was quite effusive with Wallis during their interview and expressed that she want to take her home with her. Simply put, e’erybody kinda wants to be Quvenzhané’s mama. And when you wanna be someone’s mama, you always carry around some fruit snacks, a renewed sense of hope for the future, and a jar of Vaseline, just in case you have to fight a bitch who gets hella ignorant with your child. And today, the bitch I wanna fight is satirical newspaper The Onion who tweeted a vile “joke” in which they called Q a “see you next Tuesday.”
At first, when I saw the tweet, I responded the way I did when I called Cablevision to cancel my landline, but they kept trying to persuade me to keep the landline by saying that if I did, they would throw in the Starz network of no additional charge (Starz, really? I’m pretty sure I’d pay y’all not to give me that piece of shit station):
But after the initial rage passed, I immediately grew sad like when I listen to a musician’s album on Spotfiy and every song on the CD is available except for the biggest hit and I keep clicking on the song in the hopes that it’s going to magically start playing, but it never does:
Finally, after going through all those emotions, I thought, “This is why I’m glad I don’t have kids.”
Happy Thursday, #TeamBlaria! I have a brand new epi of the Blaria Podcast for ya and today’s guest is comedian Emily Heller. We hadn’t really gotten a chance to hang out since she started her gig as the warm up comic for FX’s Totally Biased with W. Kamau Bell. So it was nice to sit down and chat about her burgeoning career, her first year making her entire living as a stand up comic, and about having chillrens. Think y’all are gonna like the convo. Listen to it after the jump!
#TeamBlaria, despite being a film buff, I had decided months ago that I wasn’t going to watch Beyoncé’s Life is But a Dream documentary because I’m wary of self-directed or “behind the scenes” movies of famous people because they tend to be nothing more than vanity pieces rather than insightful, interesting, and engaging. Yet, the full court press my Facebook friends put on me in hopes that my inner film geek would override my misgivings was similar to the kind my bf does when he knows I’m trying to eat healthier, but comes home from work and says, “Sweet potato pie is made of sweet potatoes, so it’s not like you’re really eating dessert. Open your mouth,” while doing this:
In short, I had no. fucking. choice. So as soon as I got back from my trip to San Francisco, I caved in and watched the documentary. And boy, did it do nothing to change my opinion that 97.8% of all self-directed “behind the scenes” movies are little more than fluff pieces. I mean, Life is But a Dream‘s hour and twenty-five minutes running time could have been condensed to thirty seconds tops and the title of the doc could’ve been changed to the following:
Because despite all promises of information being revealed, literally everything that was in the movie has been on Beyoncé’s Wikipedia page for months and months: she’s independent. Duh. She knows how to pose for the camera and look gorgeous. Of course. Jay-Z is her best friend. Obvs. She fired her dad, who had been managing her career from day one. Um, yeah, that tends to happen once you find out your dad was deep sea diving his dick into other vaginas that don’t belong to his wife’s. Tell us or show us something we don’t know, B! Well, to be fair, she did try. Take a gander at this empty statement from Bey: “I’m a human being. I cry.” Ugh, if you have to say this aloud, chances are that you’re about as deep as a transgendered woman’s vajayjay, which is to say not very deep at all because, generally speaking, transgendered women’s newly factory made vajazzles tend to be about as shallow as the tiny ass gutter leaf guard on the roof of my parents’ starter home. Before I go any further, I just want to stress that this isn’t a case of me sipping on haterade. I enjoy Bey-Bey and think she’s a hard worker who can dance and sing well enough to have the career she has. But based on this doc and countless other interviews she’s done, she comes off as utterly bland and relies too heavily on platitudes in hopes that they sound revelatory. And I don’t know if that is the result of her laser-like focus on having a music career her entire life at the detriment of developing into a multidimensional human being or if it’s just because she suffers from “Hot Personitis” and simply coasts on being hot enough to make people’s boners go full-mast like flags at a military hero’s funeral. Whatever the case may be, as a fellow performer and a movie buff, I was greatly disappointed by the documentary.