2005 VH1 Hip Hop Honors
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Who rumor had it, was loosing weight. Goes to show you, you can never believe idle gossip. And if there’s one thing we cannot abide, it’s gossip. Repulses us. Please, don’t eat us, sir. We taste gamey.
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Mister Singleton, as you will recall is the youngest Best Director Oscar nominee in the Academy history. This was not for “2 Fast 2 Furious” nor “Four Brothers”. Thankfully. Nia Long you probably won’t recall. We don’t blame you. But she’s nice to look at. Hey, now! At least she isn’t wearing some fricking ugly chinoiserie inspired with halter top smock.
Ooops.
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We actually had to go and imdb this faded memory. Apparently she’s been gainfully employed! Well, pat pat pat on your little black ass, Holly. Now, about that dress. See comments directly above. And take it to heart. Your little black heart.
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Quit waving your car keys at us, and take off your shirt!!!!! Whew! We love us some LL Cool J. You know what they say: “The darker the berry, the sweeter the juice”. No comment on the whole “C” train to Crooklyn track suit with matching hat look he’s trying to pull off. PULL IT ALL OFFFFFFF!!!!! Oh honeys, we would love to ride his train all the way back home to our fuckpad, where we just know we could convince him to slap us around like the cheap bitches we really are, call us names, tie us up . . . . and we’re kinda losing our focus right about now, we need something to clear our vision. We’ll just repeat: “the darker the berry - the sweeter the juice, the darker the berry - the sweeter the juice . . .”
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Unless your berries are dried up, bitter, bitchy, back stabbing, worthless mouthfuls that insist on dragging their two seconds of reality TV fame thru the muck and mire. Sheesh. This twat not only irks our ire, but she manages to make us half-puke every time we see that stretched out Mr. Ed smile of hers. Although, we freely admit that it takes a lot of guts to be completely hated by the entire nation and still show your shameless ass in public. Wearing a cheap slip, no less. No less than she deserves in our humble opinion.
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Now, this bitch we like. At least she managed to cover her peaches and taint, admittedly she could have tried harder. But all in all, a “C” for effort. Hey, it’s probably a better grade than she ever got in school.
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And this one!!! We luuuuuuvvvvvvvv us some “Salt-n-Pepa”!!!!!! Hell, yes. The other gals showed up too, but honestly, we want to focus on the one wearing the “Knockout 100% Human Hair with Sheer Indulgence Top by Raquel Welch® Wig” and sundress from the Under $5 store.
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Trannys? Trannys were allowed in? The balls. And she might be packing ‘em. We don’t wanna find out. Trust us.
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T.I.? Talentless Imp? Trainwreck Inspiration? We give.
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Aww, no you ain’t, bitches. You ain’t been “En Vogue” since the first Bush administration. Although, clearly you’ve been eating well off your residual checks. Congrats. Nice to know that not every late 80s one hit wonders are in the crackhouse.
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Yes. You are. Moving on.
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Apparently, she claims to have been inspired to become a performer after watching a Destiny’s Child video. It was kind of like a religious experience, but with bad hair weaves and wind machines. No word yet on who inspired her to dress like a cum guzzling slutbag out of Jersey. We’ll keep you posted.
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Well, what did you expect at the Hip Hop Awards? She arrived with Ice-T. You do the leg work, we already know his background. And our restraining order still stands, by the way. We are nobody’s bitches twice, you hear that!!!!
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NO!!!!! REALLY?? GET OUT!!! No, really, get out. If you can fit your mammoth ass thru the front door. Eat a salad.
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We love The Roots. Not his. Especially with the afro pick jammed in tighter than a nine year old hooker. And we love his name. How punctuationally cutesy! But we must add that we really don’t understand why a black man would want to recall those painful Buckwheat from “The Little Rascals” memories. Must be some kind of empowerment thing we just don’t get.
Like we’re not getting this.
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How nice of you to step away from the lawnmower and join the party, Kwame. Sheesh. Oh look, you brought the lawnmower with you, and hung it around your neck. Nice. Now, go hang the loose end around the nearest drainpipe.
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Not so lyte nowadays, is she? Well, if you must attempt the whole toreador-from-the-valley look, it coulda been worse. Well, no, not really. But we don’t choose to hate - we appreciate. If you’re done laughing, move on.
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It’s “Lidsville”, all over again. And we’re sitting in our basement in our Garanimals®, eating Cap’n Crunch® from our plastic yellow Tupperware® bowl, and mom’s on her second valium of the day, dad is still sleeping off his rum and Tab® binge from last night, and “Lidsville” still creeps us out. Just somebody, please stop making him shake that Holy Grail 40oz thingy at us. And please make the creepy, creepy man go away.
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We have no idea if he is his namesake or not, we just don’t like the whole “grab your pits and pout” stance that these hippity hoppity folks are so fond of. It’s just RUDE!! Didn’t your momma teach you not to be rude?
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Who let the white bitch in? Dressed like Sandy Duncan in a Wheat Thins® commercial circa 1974? Coco ain’t gonna like her. Bitch betta watch her back.
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Run, reverend, run!!!!! Runaway from this billionaire with the fashion sense of an outpatient. Thank the gods above and below that his skanktastic polyurethaned wife didn’t show up to suck out the entire life and joy out of the ballroom. Mr. Simmons, quick question. Why, with all of your billions, do you insist on dressing like a white seven year old from Minnesota who’s waiting for the short bus? It’s just kinda weird. Is it some kind of fetish? That would explain you attending with your preacher man beside you, but still. Tacky. Pray for forgiveness. Try.
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“We’re not saying, we’re just saying”. Here to take us out. With her mouth. She’s a feisty one, that Wendy, and we applaud her. Not the Quiana knit frock with enmeshed Hopi emblem. Just you. You’re saucy, and we like that in a bitch. Keep on mouthing off, Wendy, we certainly will. That’s it, bitches. We out. Peace. Y’all. Mothafuckers.
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