Dante & Barry & Russ.

1. I am not so Ecstatic upon seeing Flac present himself in this manner at the CareFusion Jazz Festival 55 over the weekend. However, comment snark below from Crunk & Disorderly totally makes up for it.

“Mos Def looks like the uncle that says he’s going to quit drinking and never does.”


“He got on Jim Brown's good hat.”

“He looks like he straight walked off the set of Jungle Fever as Samuel Jackson’s stand in.”

2. ObamaIsLiterallyHitler.tumblr.com!

Have at it, Tumblr-istas! Repost that one reposter's reposting of that thing he saw on that one post that was boosted from another post! Make um say VIA. All day long.
(uh-oh, cranky lady blogger alert! Nobody wants to see that. Sowwy.)


YOU KNOW WHO ELSE HAD A DOG? HITLER!

DO YOU KNOW WHO ELSE WROTE A BOOK? HITLER!

DO YOU KNOW WHO ELSE LIKED TO PAINT? HITLER!

DO YOU KNOW WHO ELSE HELD BEER SUMMITS?? HITLER!





3. Annnnd I'm thismuchcloser to getting my paws on some Yo! Bum Rush The Show! demos.


When he's alone in his room/sometimes he stares at the wall. Russell is continuing to chop down trees in the skinny-blond-girl forest while the universe keeps the two of us apart for the time being. Romance, sheer delight! How sweet!/He gotta find him a girl to make his life complete.

As we all remember from the Julie Incident of 2009, Russ has this adorable habit of trying to do nakedtimes things with thin, long-haired, Caucasoid lady types. My dues in this club are currently paid; I'm a member in good standing. Since I find it terribly necessary to satisfy my lifelong musicdork wish to meet Uncle Rick and maybe Cey Adams and maybe Rick the Fucking Ruler, and find out from LL where I can get a gold nameplate that says I Wish You Would, I will attempt to meet Russ, successfully navigate my way through the halls of Rush Management, and acquire these things I desire, all while keeping my clothing intact. 'Cause, you know, I don't trick for things I want - even if they're really wonderful music-nerd things I want. Respectable girls are teases, DUH.






.
.
.