I had it all figured out. I thought I would sit down at the computer, watch an episode of the Real Housesitters of Dekalb, react, open up a new window, fire off some commentary, and go about my day. After my last recap, I have been itching to revisit the trainwreck we all hate to love. Uncle Jesus had other plans. Within the first five minutes, my hands started shaking. My palms are now sweating. My Fuckery Cup doth runneth over. The coonery-per-minute ratio in this episode is greater than the dick-per-inch ratio in Nene's tights. Whew.

I have no choice. I must address each delusionista individually. Here goes...

Sherman. 
The episode opens with  Madame Hardface showcasing her newest purchase, a vagina an Aston Martin convertible, for the cameras and her miraculously unhomely daughter. Nevermind that the car has since been snatched by her divorce attorneys. Don't be a hater. Sherman needs you to know that she's living her own life now, thanks to spousal support and her part-time work as Atlanta's most back breakingest male escort, and that's all that matters.

This week she's competing in a charity event, "Dancing Stars of Atlanta." Apparently, when the marital assets were divided her husband was awarded the shame, as she clearly has none. That's the only possible explanation. Sherman is not shy about the fact that she lacks ovaries rhythm. In rehearsal, Sherman says she's confident in her abilities. If it were a dog show, then yes, Sherman you're bound to win. A dance competition? Hardly. The rehearsal footage could have easily been lost tapes from "Mister Ed On Ice" because Sherman in heels, log rolling and shuffling to and fro was about as sexy as sexting wehthe Faehntaisea.

Now, in the midst of all this trained horse foolisness, Sherman does deserve credit. Delusional transsexual she may be, but a liar she is not. When questioned about why she didn't bring her dress and shoes to the dress rehearsal, she responded:

I know it's for charity but I'm a busy woman. I'm a mother. I'm an actress. This is a lot of work.

Ladies and gents, Sherman is playing the role of a lifetime: a woman. The dedication required to pull off that farce? EPIC. To survive a marriage, a divorce, and several dates without blowing her cover? Somebody hand that man a Lifetime Achievement Award and some duct tape. I got a little nervous when that dress got to twirling.


Later when it was suggested that hair and makeup would be provided for her during the competition, she said she always traveled with her own glam team:

You gotta be skilled to touch this face.

My thoughts exactly sir.


Clay Aiken.
It is pretty much understood that Clay Aiken inhabits her own universe where obnoxious, bisonly daughters and albino alley cat wigs rain from the sky, right? Okay. Nothing with Clay Aiken surprises me. She spent $60,000 to revamp her youngest pork cutlet's room. Pink, pink, and more pink. For the next five years, Babe the piglet has to sleep inside Ne-Yo's Beautiful Pink Limp-Wristed Fantasy. I am baffled that she'd spend that much on spoiling the piglet when (a)she's spending thousands per week on those lush ass I-hate-myself wigs and (b)employing and trusting the advice of her friend/assistant, this girl:

She is quite possibly the most foolish-looking colored woman not named Star Jones on television. Anyone who leaves the house with Kelly Rowland's despair and various Bad Boy artists hiding atop her head is not to be trusted. End of story.


Cynthia.
Close your eyes.

Now, imagine a sex scene.

Candles. Three dollar champagne. Rose petals. You're waiting in your sexiest tube socks and your finest head scarf. Lube in-hand. Ready to get  down with the get down. To your left, is your sister. And there's an armadillo on the bed. And a camera crew. All the lights are on, and a large man is commenting and coaching off to the side.

Awkward as the fuck, right?


This was Cynthia's marriage proposal from boyfriend Peter. Well, no armadillo. And no head scarf, but a hedgehog spike 'do and the man coaching and commenting is Uncle Nene. And cameras and this woman:



In theory, sharing a marriage proposal with friends sounds charming.


But when the couple in question is an aging model who runs from relationships (including one with that damn Leon aka David Ruffin) and an attractive 50-year old whose teeth match his gray beard, the thrill dies a little. It was the worst proposal ever:




"...I gotta get down on my kneeeees."











  


Three years. You ready? You ready? 
 





 


You ready? You not gonna back up?




 

 You not gonna run?
 





 


You not gonna run?





 


You wanna marry me?







 

You promise?









What in the self-doubting hell, Peter? Cynthia didn't show enthusiasm until she saw the ring. Friends then had to coach Cynthia into the bedroom to "do what engaged people do." Cynthia's the sane cast member. I hope their marriage lasts.


Phraudra.
It is painfully clear that Phraudra's knowledge of babies begins and ends with the fact that she should have swallowed them on the night of her insemination. This week, she's packing her bags to go have her labor induced two weeks early, possibly to maintain the lie that her baby was conceived after her November 2009 wedding? Whatever the case, she's absolutely clueless about children. For a well-respected entertainment attorney, she is a giant, country moron. Snagging that fine ass convict husband of hers may have been her best move to date. She mentioned that her friend Melanie, mother of three, was to fully prepare her for childbirth. This being a woman who referenced the ambiblical cord and using ackahol to clean up after the baby's circumcision. They discussed penis ointment and Phraudra's need for a fifty cent dimepiece to prevent the baby's belly button from protruding. The wide and country blind leading the fraudulent and blind. Either she screwed around and Apollo is gay and is not the father or she wanted to uphold an image of purity...or something.


Kandi.
Kandi Leghorn voiced her opinion about Clay Aiken's reaction to the song she wrote for her, "The Ring Didn't Mean A Thing." She stood up for herself and insisted that in order to continue a professional relationship, Clay Aiken would have to stop sucking dick smoking cigarettes and resume vocal lessons. Handclap for you girl.

I hesitate (not really) to bash Kandi, as her "manager" @donjuannc appears to have a Google alert on "Kandi" and "ChrisAlexander." When I wrote about her for Soulbounce, he found me on Twitter. I recently compared my coworker's hair to Kandi's:



and he found me again.

He acts as if I called her Nene Leakes or something. Can't please everyone. Next week, Phraudra has her labor induced "since the baby is fully developed" and we learn what the deal really is with everything.

Will you be watching?

...and here is Sherman's dance performance. :( 





all feedback is welcomed. yes, even those of you in the Bronx.|be notified of new posts: Subscribe

Also published as "Cee-Lo Woos & Slays With 'The Lady Killer'" on Soulbounce.

Waiting for the release of a Cee-Lo album is like anticipating the end of a BET Awards show. It's painful. His projects are epic by default and serve as a breath of fresh air in a market populated with junkie rappers, professional victims, self-important pseudo-martyrs and goons named Waka. The designation "good music" is purely subjective but risk-taking (and talent) should be a requirement in 2010. His unbridled, something-for-everyone work with Gnarls Barkley on the collective's two releases The Odd Couple and St. Elsewhere won me over and clearly demonstrated his genius and versatility.

Enter The Lady Killer, Cee-Lo Green's first official solo disc in six years. Prior to its release, Mr. Green treated fans to a masterful mixtape, Stray Bullets (see: "ChamPain") and debuted a handful of the album's tracks via his website and Youtube page. To say that "F*ck You" was a hit would be a huge understatement, kind of like saying "Soulja Boy Annoy 'Em is bad." Who doesn't love a well-sung, stinging send-off? The song was everywhere, with William Shatner's recent interpretation officially signaling its overkill.

Leading off the album is "Bright Lights Bigger City," perhaps the most pop radio-friendly song herein. With a vintage Michael Jackson bassline, it's the perfect riding song to jump-start a night of Harlem Shakin' and Two Buck Chuck bottle poppin'. Another standout, " Love Gun," featuring Lauren Bennett on lead, was appropriately yanked from Pussycat Dolls' second fiddle, the nasal songstress herself, Melody Thornton. The spy movie guitar strums play into the overall playboy/assassin theme. "Bodies" sees Cee-Lo at his lyrical best flowing over a smooth, eerie grove. The album's closer, "No One's Gonna Love You," is perfection, as I'm a sucker for a big, sweeping ballad.

The Cee-Lo Green brand of magic is absolutely necessary in this musical climate. Though noticeably restrained compared to his otherworldy Gnarls Barkley masterpieces, there are several gems present here. Whether singing modernized Motownesque love declarations or detailing stringless sexual exploits, the Soul Machine delivered yet another solid entry in his stellar catalog. This is hardly his best album. He's simply doing what we expect of him, making enjoyable, better-than-most-of-his-peers, timeless music. Support greatness. Support one of the most sanginest sangin big man (not named Luther) who ever sang. You won't be disappointed.

all feedback is welcomed. yes, even those of you in the Bronx.|be notified of new posts: Subscribe

Well, he did it. Hammer hurt em. And by “em”, I mean my feelings. In the latest chapter of People Who Should Not Have Internet Access, Money Challenged Hammer has delivered the “video” for his highly anticipated Jay-Z diss track, “Better Run Run”.


*laughter*

Hova, you may recall, made a quick reference to Hammer’s cashflow issues--putting every California goon on his payroll and ultimately filing for Chapter 11 bankruptcy, remember?-- in a verse in Kanye West’s “So Appalled.” And appalled, King Hammer (as would now like to be called) was. Long retired from his days of restless leg choreography and Olympic-level wackness, he pieced together what is sure to be a viral hit. And by “a viral hit”, I mean passed around like Raz B Kat Stacks at the Source Awards.


Well then.

I don’t trust any Negro who wears shades indoors, especially during the day, and isn’t high on that Whitney or that TI. The boardroom scene that opens the vidjo exists only to tell you, the concerned fan, that he is still "doing stuff". And by "doing stuff", I mean lacking in shame, dignity, and real friends. Here, we see King Hammer, CEO, annoying the shit out of greeting a table of what I presume are henchmen. Goons. Paid Extras. Naturally, one of these gents appears to be wearing sunglasses on the back of his head, which can only mean one thing: he has a little dick also wears Ed Hardy jogging suits and Lugz boots when he's not taking pity on juicy-mouthed colored guys.

King Hammer and his spastic hands then take you, the magnetized viewer who is now searching iTunes for "Better Run Run", on a dark journey through devil worshiping, thinly-veiled insults, and self-humiliation. About a minute into the video, it is made clear that, like our good girlfriend John Legend, someone wants Hammer to fail. The word "swag" has never stung as much as it does when spit from the mouth of a rapper turned financial failure turned preacher turned clothing designer turned rapper.

Some lyrics:

If I knock on ya door, would you come on out? If I knock on ya door that means I'm knockin' ya out. If I knock on ya door, BOY I BUSS YA IN YA MOUF.

*silence*

This man then throws in some illuminati references, some clown ass bastard in a Devil Halloween costume chasing a Jigga-like character, a white suit (always a bad sign), and dancing. Mr. Burrell presents himself as a pure figure, eventually offering counsel to the fake Jay-Z (in a scene where his lips.do.not.move)...and then.....





(wait for it)






(keep waiting)




...he baptizes Jay-Z.

CLAWDA MERCIES.

Jesus be a spontaneous combustion pill.


Well, see for yourself.

Disclaimer: Before you click, understand that the next five minutes will never been seen again. You can pay a bill, start a book, masturbate, or watch this video. With that out of the way, observe a desperate cry for help:


Consider your life changed.

 ~chrisAlexander
all feedback is welcomed. yes, even those of you in the Bronx.|be notified of new posts: Subscribe