I Hit It First is the first single from Ray J’s (aka Brandy’s little brother) upcoming album and despite his claims that the song is not about her, the single’s cover art is clearly a pixelated image of her.
“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.
“I look like charcoal. I’m so dark. It’s awful.” ~ Overhearing a Hispanic co-worker vent to a White co-worker about how it’s terrible that her tan made her the complexion of a U-Haul box.
I literally do not know where to begin. The entire situation was just such a Molotov cocktail of ignorance and self-hate. And the shittiest part was that I couldn’t say anything because it would be the first time in history someone was hella angry while holding a Cliff bar (my co-workers were in the common area kitchen and we have dope snacks). Also, I’m Black and have an afro, so unless I have a look on my face that connotes this:
People at work think I feel like this all the time:
But seriously, Blarians, I was livid and also saddened for this ethnic woman that resembling anything close to brown complexion is a nightmare that would ruin her day. That her lightly-colored skin had the audacity to get darker after she had spent the weekend tanning it was simply inexcusable to her. I mean, getting mad that the result of tanning is somewhat brown skin is like me being upset that after I, a lactose intolerant person, finish doubling down on extra cheesy pizza, I end up chanting like Angela Bassett in What’s Love Got to Do With It in hopes that will soothe my aching stomach (skip to 1:12):
Um, okay, well can we hate you because your inflated sense of self is gross.org/donations? Last week, Samantha Brick, a columnist for the UK’s Daily Mail, wrote a masturbatory article about her #prettygirlproblems, namely that women hate her for her beauty. I guess Samantha forgot that we all have eyes (and not just the hills), the ability to type “Samantha Brick” into Google image search, look at her face, think “Bitch, please,” and then go back to Instagramming pictures that don’t need to look vintage. People, you took a photo of Words with Friends declaring you the winner. Mind you, it’s a game that came out two years ago, which you just won five minutes ago. On the internet. It’s not vintage. It’s literally right now.
Samantha Brick posing with her stepson Antonio. His eyes are saying, "Bitch please, you are a six now can we go inside so I drink some Capri Sun."