Saturday, November 18, 2006

What do you think

Awards to Somali Bloggers Statff members

Yo Yo Yow sup peepz, HollyWood does it, and all those awards goes to their freaks, why not give awards to Somalibloggers staff.... here comes Flight13 awards of the year:

First Goes to.........FIREFLY

Your Great ass contribution is highly appreciated, therefore flight13 joint awards you this certificate.....
to the one and only Greatest ass on the blog Ms

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Second Award goes to Sleeping Lady......

You are too sexy to Ignore,,,, and your contribution is highly appreciated...this SEXY award goes to Ms SleepLady

MySpace Comments

Last if not least...... Ms FOC you seem to be tied up a bit lately but anyways we will give you this for now and hope you can get back on blogging after you UNTIE yourself.....this awards goes to
Ms FOC or tied up lady...

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There are more awards to come for Somali Bloggers, specially the new Kid on the Blog Mr Shafi and his Krew and My little dolly doll Ms Pucca..... Stay tune

Friday, October 20, 2006

JURY DUTY.......Escaping blot!

Yo, Yo wuzz up ! Y'all may not realize this, but tha Accountz Reeceevin' bruthahood be forced to live in two worlds: tha supafly world o' officin' an' tha bleak-ass world of all y'all amateurs. And it ain't easy. When punchout time roll around, there be a lot o' A.R. bruthahs who don't know what to do with theyselves. Sometimes, they go to Chiliz or Applebeez, but them places be full of playa-hatas who don't approve of tha reeceevin' lifestyle, and in no time, suckaz start flexin'.

'Bout a month ago, me and mah homes Petty Ka$h wuz in WILLIAMS, and some o' dem stripey-shirt muthafukkaz didn't like how he ordered a jalapeño-poppah appetizah 'steada a full entrée. They dragged his ass into tha kitchen, doused him with that teriyaki-lime-juice-mesquite-sauce shit all they food be cooked in, an' stabbed him wit' them wack pins an' buttons they wear on they suspendas. Then they threw him in tha Dumpsta outside. A month lata, Ka$h still be tryin' to get that teriyaki-margarita-whateva-tha-fuck-it-is smell outta his Dockaz.

Shit's gotten so bad, some A.R. bruthahs don't even go out no more afta work. They just chill in they cribs wit' they bitchez an' shortiez, wishin' they could be out on tha street reeceevin'. Ever read in tha police blotta 'bout some A.R. bruthah gettin' arrested foe bustin' into his own place-a work aftahourz to do a li'l freestyle numba-krunchin'? Or jus' to dick aroun' on tha addin' machine a little, even if it just be to punch in 7734 40, which upside-down read "OH HELL"? Bruthahs jus' wanna keep they minds active, but in tha fucked-up non-officin' world, all tha 5-0 see is breakin' an' enterin'.

In spite o' all that bullshit, tha A.R. krew still be willin' to play by tha rulez o' tha non-reeceevin' world. We tip our waitressez, park our hoopties in designated spotz, an' sort our lightz an' darkz. An' if all y'all show tha proper respect, shit, we be known to tie our cardboard recyclables into bundlez.

But, dag, yo—y'all crossed tha line when y'all tried to force yo' lame-ass jury-duty shit on mah homie Sir Casio KL7000.

Last month, I was kickin' tha spreadsheetz in my dope cubicle when tha phone rang. It be Petty Ka$h. I'm thinkin', shit, where he gettin' his ass throwed outta now, Bombay Bicycle Club? Instead, Ka$h say Casio got this summons to appear down at tha county courthouse an' serve on some weak-ass jury.

"Ka$h, get tha posse together wit' a quickness," I say. "We gonna bum-rush tha courthouse an' bust our homie out."

A.R. bruthahs gots to contend wit' this jury-duty shit from time to time. And we ain't havin' it. We such stone-col' supastars in our respective officez, it be out o' tha question foe us to serve on a jury. Not only dat, Casio's fiscal year wuz set to end DEC 1, so it wuz muthafukkin' krunch time all around.

Time wuz runnin' out. Petty Ka$h called just afta lunch hour, which meant Casio mighta been picked foe juryin' already. I arrived at tha courthouse in tha Nite Rida 'round 1:20, an' a few minutes later, I see Petty Ka$h, Kount Von Numbakrunch, AirGoNomic, and 3-Holepunch pull up in Ka$h's Tercel. Everybody come fully strapped, but I told 'em to leave they letta openers an' bindah clips in tha hoopty, lest they want tha courthouse metal detectaz to go apeshit.

See, I know dat courthouse up an' down from mah own run-ins wit' Tha Man. I go into tha trunk o' tha Nite Rida an' hauls out some leatha sportz jacketz an' baseball capz, an' tells everybody to put them on. Tha homiez start in to bitchin', but I say that if tha courthouse muscle see us in our officin' gear, they might get wise to our scheme. As anotha smokescreen, I give 'em all some juror passes I sweet-talked from this courtroom stenographa I once balled.

"An' deep-six tha street verbals," I tell mah homies. "Talk like this: 'How do you do, I am an average citizen, and I like jury duty and other activities that take place outside offices.' I know it wack, but that be how these muthafukkaz talk."

Afta some tense momentz (tha guardz want to know why Ka$h stank of honey-mustard sauce), we made it inside an' split up to find Casio. I had tha mad stealth of a muthafukkin' jungle cat an' chameleon combined, stalkin' tha corridorz foe mah homie an' blendin' in wit' tha suckaz. It all paid off when I found Casio gettin' his drink on from a water fountain outside a courtroom on tha fourth flo'. He say somethin' about gettin' picked foe some civil case that settle outta court befoe tha trial can begin, but I ain't got time to listen. I get his ass downstairz to tha lobby, callin' Ka$h on his cell an' leavin' a coded message foe the krew to split tha courthouse, lest tha 5-0 be listenin' in. Wit' Numbakrunch an' 3-Holepunch distractin' tha pigz wit' questions 'bout where tha Soldiers An' Sailors' Memorial at, Casio an' me hustle tha fuck outta there an' into tha Nite Rida.

It wuz mad dangerous foe Casio to return to his office. That's tha first place tha 5-0 woulda looked, no diggity. So I takes him to a safehouse tha A.R. posse keep foe when one-a our own gots to lay low. Casio stay there foe almost three weekz, doin' all of his end-o'-fiscal-year bidness from undaground. He use a network o' couriers to relay his shit to his office by foot every night, cuz e-mail can be traced. An' I ain't tellin' none o' y'all where tha safehouse at, 'cause when you reeceeve accountz foe a livin', tha first thang you learn is TRUST NO ONE.

Yo, headz up, non-officin' muthafukkaz. Peep this: We know yo' world be bigger than ours, an' that y'all gots tha benjamins, tha muscle, an' tha sheer numbahz to do yo' biddin'. But we got tha brains an' tha cunning. An' if you try to push us, we push back. We push playa-hatas back to tha muthafukkin' Stone Age, know what I'm sayin'? An' we wouldn't trade tha 24-7 Reeceevin' Life foe yo' gardenin' or yo' bowlin' league or yo' microwave-cookery classes or whatever weak shit all y'all do in yo' spare time. In tha A.R. World, ain't no such thing as spare time. Tha only spare time we eva gonna have be in tha grave. An' thass all good wit' us, 'cause we be straight-bangin' hardcore badasses to tha end. Top-Dog OUT.

Saturday, October 14, 2006



All y'all disciples of tha Top-Dog know that The Man always be tryin' to playa-hate on tha Accountz Reeceevable bruthahood, 24-7. On any given day in tha office park what contain MapleLeaf Office Supply, tha 5-0 be bustin' some A.R. bruthah on some trumped-up charge, like jaywalkin' or findin' a ounce or two of correction fluid on his person an' claimin' he wuzn't usin' it for no correctin'. That shit don't never happen to no Accountz Payabo muthafuckas, 'cause they got all tha dead prezident an' can bribe tha pigs so they look tha other way. A.R. bruthahs ain't got nothin' but debits, an' they thankful if they just balance at tha end of tha goddamn day.

So tha A.R. krew gots to be vigilant at all times and take care of they own. When one of us be down on our luck, tha others gots to tend to him, 'cause one day, they could find theyselves in that same situation, know what I'm sayin'?

Yo, peep this: 'Bout a month ago at quitting time, tha Top-Dog be punchin' out foe tha day, lookin' forward to kickin' back in his crib wit' tha latest issue of Consuma Reportz an' a steamin' bowl of Dinty Moore stew, when I spots this fool leanin' on tha Nite Rida out in tha Mapleleaf parking lot. It be dusk, an' I can't makes him out too good, but that don't matter, 'cuz tha Letta Opener Of Death always finds its target, know what I'm sayin'? So I creep up on tha guy, my Spidey Sense all tinglin', but before I can stick tha bitch, he whirl around an' grabs my arm. It mah homey Jerry Tha Sharpie Head.

"Shit, fool," I say. "Y'all be leanin' on mah hoopty. You outta yo' mind?"

Jerry Tha Sharpie Head be one crazy-ass muthafucka. He always trippin' on them felt-tip pens an', as a result, ain't capable of observin' tha most basic of Top-Dog protocol, which be, stay tha fizuck off tha Nite Rida, lest you wanna get sprayed. But Jerry still gots tha reflexes of a muthafuckin' jungle cat, an' he can balance and journalize wit' tha best of them. Word is bond. Only, Jerry look like shit: He be sweatin' an' shakin', his Membaz Only windbreaker be all soiled, tha underside of his nose be stained wit' black Sharpie ink, an' ledga sheets be fallin' out of his attaché case.

"Yo, Top-Dog," Jerry say. "I need somethin'."

"Shit, Jerry," I say, "I ain't got no Sharpies."

"Nah, I don't need no fix, Dog," Jerry say. "That ain't it. You gotta help me wit' somethin' else. Don't nobody wanna hire me 'cuz I just got outta lockdown. They think I ain't to be trusted around they benjaminz, 'cuz I been in tha pen. But that be straight-up bullshit, G, 'cuz I didn't get busted foe no embezzlin' or money-launderin' or no fiscal shit like that. I got busted foe theft of certain office supplies. I did my time and paid mah debt to society. What moe they want a brutha to do?"

"Yo, Jerry, chill," I say. "Whatchu want from me?"

"I wants you to let me join tha Mapleleaf A.R. posse."

Damn. Picture Jerry an' me, accountz-reeceevin' together like back in tha day. That would be off tha hook, no doubt. Only thing was, tha MapleLeaf A.R. krew already be full. Wit' Gary an' Gladys backin' up tha Top-Dog in his day-to-day bidness, I don't needs no more homeys protectin' mah neck. Tha only work I'd have foe Jerry would be pitiful shit like copyin' an' collatin,' which I wouldn't even make no bitch-ass temp do, let alone a Seventh-Degree A.R. Masta like Jerry. So I tells Jerry that I write him a reference instead. Tha Top-Dog be known far and wide as tha Tony Montana of tha A.R. scene, an' a reference from me be worth its weight in gold, know what I'm sayin'?

So Jerry an' me, we go back to my cubicle, an' I gets on tha computa an' types up tha phattest reference letta a A.R. bruthah ever got. I write how tha Top-Dog be down wit' Jerry since back in tha day, when we wuz just two hungry young street punks hustlin' to reeceeve. I write how he wuz a disciple of tha legendary A.R. masta CPA-ONE. I write how he be tha hardest workin' muthafucka of them all, an' how you'd have to be a stone-cold fool of a human-resources director not to hire his azz. I didn't say nothin' about him bein' in tha pen or about his Sharpie-huffin'. This letta be nothin' but mad props.

Tha next day, I be chillin' in my crib, just checkin' my phone mizessages. One of them be from Jerry, sayin' that thankz to my off-tha-heezy reference letta, some Big Willie textbook publisher hired his azz on tha spot. I be crazy proud to help out a homey in need, especially one from back in tha day like Jerry, even if he a Sharpie Head.

A few weeks go by, an' I be tendin' to bidness as usual. Then, one day, I be in tha Midstate break room, and associate shipping supervisa Jim Eberthaler steps to mah grill.

"Oh, hi, Moahamed," Jim say. "Say, did you know that my wife works over at Enrichment Publishing? Apparently, a good friend of yours, Jerry, was recently hired over there. I understand he's the new accounts-payable supervisor. That's terrific. Small world, huh?"


Tha next few hours wuz a blur. All I could think about wuz Jerry crossin' ova to tha A.P. side. I took a long lunch that day, only I don't recall gettin' my eat on. What I do remember is cruisin' ova to tha other side of town, grabbin' a bat from tha trunk of tha Nite Rida, hustlin' up to tha seventh floor of Enrichment Publishin' corporate headquarters, draggin' Jerry's ass out of his cubicle, and beatin' tha livin' shit outta him until he was a mass of bloody pulp an' shredded Membaz Only nylon. Some big-hair office ho called tha 5-0, but tha Top-Dog wuz long gone by the time they arrived.

I went back to mah cubicle at MapleLeaf and tried to chill, focusin' on mah Executive Stress Ball. But crazy thoughts be flyin' through my dome. Then I hears tha 5-0's sirens down below in tha parkin' lot. I be thinkin', come an' get me, pigs. Jerry an' me wuz mad tight back in tha day, but I don't regret nothin'. It be worth doin' time for what I did. Tha A.R. bruthahood cannot be betrayed.

I gets up from my fly pneumatic desk-chair wit' tha height control an' tha lumbar adjustment for tha last time, thinkin' about how them cold steel cuffs gonna feel against tha skin of my wrists. But as I nears tha MapleLeaf loadin' dock, about to give myself up, there be that wack inventory-department bitch Dave Weintraub, who for some reason think we tight.

"Hey, Mohamed, your friend Jerry just got caught stealing a case of dry-erase markers from our warehouse," Dave say. "He didn't even try hiding the markers–he just walked out with them in broad daylight. Right under the 'We Prosecute Shoplifters' sign, no less."

"You fuckin' wit' tha Top-Dog?" I say to Dave. "You better not be fuckin' wit' tha Top-Dog, or I slit yo' muthafukkin' throat."

"No, Mohamed, that's the absolute truth," Dave say. "Scout's honor."

"Then I hope you took tha case from him an' gave him tha beat-down of his life foe stealin' MapleLeaf inventory," I say. "You better say that to me, beeyotch."

"Oh, no, Mohamed. I would never take the law into my own hands like that," Dave say. "I phoned the police. They just drove off with him a minute ago. Boy, he didn't look too good, either. It almost looked like he fell down a flight of stairs or something."

Out of mah head, I grab Dave and slam his bitch ass against a bunch of boxes. Only, tha boxes be filled wit' nothin' but packin' peanuts, an' they be all ova tha fool as I peel outta tha parkin' lot in tha Nite Rida. Foe tha first time in my MapleLeaf career, I takes tha aftanoon off.

Damn. After I whupped him, Jerry musta found tha strength to get into his hoopty an' follow me to MapleLeaf. Then he got hisself busted intentional 'cuz of me.

Maybe I shoulda...

Aw, fuck that shit. Jerry broke tha sacred Code Of Tha Reeceevable. Crossin' ova to Payabo be beyond forgivin', man.

I stuck mah neck out foe Jerry Tha Sharpie Head, and he go A.P. on me. Then he go and steal a bunch of dry-erase markers in broad daylight. Why he wanna do that right when he get out of tha pen and be turnin' his life around? Maybe Jerry one of them bruthas who can't live on tha outside. Whateva. All I knows is, that fool gonna have a rough time in minimum-security lockdown when all them A.R. bruthahs on tha inside find out he be a traitor to tha cause. He probably gonna be made some junk-bond trader's bitch. Shit


Thursday, October 12, 2006

Tha Autobiography Of Top-Dog

Yo, yo yow.... What tha dilly yo, mah homies? Tha Top-Dog be keepin' it real at MapleLeaf Office Supply, still kickin' it hardcore as tha Mack Daddy Enforca of tha Accountz Reeceevable Department. Jus' got my annual evaluation, and shit if I ain't tha baddest stone-cold supastar in tha whole third-floor administrative office. Tha comptrolla, Gerald Luckenbill, not only be approvin' me for a raise, he gonna nominate my ass for Employee Of Tha Month for Oktowba, 'cause I not only balanced tha shit out of tha MApleLeaf ledga this month; my department led tha whole goddamn company in tha numba of Bidnez awards collected foe tha muthasuckin' 2006 Multi-Plantinum Siera Bidness Club. Tha future be looking SUH-WEET for tha Top-Dog, Gs.

Now, most of y'all be thinkin', "Tha Top-Dog, he know his bidness." And thas right, man. Shit need addin'? I creep in, adds tha shit up, and slip out, quiet as a muthafuck. Variance need resolvin'? It be gone without a trace. Uh-huh. Only a wack-ass fool ask someone besides tha Top-Dog to accountz-receeve they shit.

But tha Top-Dog, he didn't always have it goin' on like he do today. Man, years ago, back when I wuz just a shorty, I wuz into some crazy-ass shit. I be all psycho, wildin' and shit. But eventually, I straightened out, and I'm here to tell all y'all no-hair-on-they-balls baby punk muthafuckas who think they tha bomb to best listen to what I be puttin' down, lest you want me to go Jet Li on yo' ass.

Check this shit out: When tha Top-Dog wuz in high school, he could usually be found kickin' his shit behind Arthur Treacher's Fish & Chips wit' his homies in tha Future Bidness Leadaz Of Canada. Or shopliftin' papa clips and gummed index tabs from tha local office-supply store. See, even back in tha day, I wuz into officin' an' shit, only I wuz unfocused, know what I'm sayin'? I didn't know if I wanted to be a stenographa, or a data processa, or a file clerk. But at tha same time, I be cocky, thinkin' I don't need no flunky teachaz to show me how to do this shit, so I be cuttin' my bidness courses all tha time.

One day, I be skippin' class to hang wit' my homies and drink 40s in tha parking lot of tha biggest accountin' firm in town, Kessler, Orbach, Cowart & Associates, LLP. I wuz checkin' out tha suits that wuz walkin' in and out of tha place, totin' they dope-ass Samsonite attaché cases, and I be thinkin,' DAMN, they muthafuckas must be KNEE-DEEP in bitches and Benjamins. It wuz at that moment tha Top-Dog decided to get an accountin' degree and account shit for a livin.'

After that, I figure I best start attendin' class and catch up and shit, lest I fail and don't get accepted to no bidness college. But shit, man, that same day, after school, I be in tha typin' room practicin' my typin', when in come this fly honey cartin' a overhead projecta. I recognize her as tha only bitch in tha school A.V. Club, and damn, she be tha flyest ho I ever seen. She gots these fine A-cup titties unda her little velour top and shit, and she be wearin' them round, plastic glasses wit' tha dip in tha temple piece that make tha Top-Dog wanna knock bootz. Right away, I step to this fine ho and start sweet-talkin' her, and one thing leads to another, know what I'm sayin'? Soon, we be spread out on tha desk of tha typin' teacha, Mrs. Wexler, an' she be ridin' mah jock like Willie Shoemaker. Shit.

Suddenly, we hears this scream behind us. I turns around and sees Mrs. Wexler. That old-ass dustcrotch haul my ass off to tha office of Principal Haslett, who tell me I be suspended for a whole month for freakin' a fellow pupil on school grounds. So I says, "Fuck this shit, Haslett, I ain't attendin' yo bitch-ass school no more," then I flip off Wexler and leaves. She wuz probably just jealous 'cause I be givin' that A.V. Club ho tha M-Luv instead a' her.

When my mama found out I quit school, she threw me outta tha house, so tha Top-Dog wuz livin' on tha streets. A few days later, I run into this homie of mine, Harold Roukema, who used to be a Big Willie systems analyst wit' Salomon Bruthahs before he hit tha skidz. Roukema say he gonna introduce me to this street accountant who wuz wanted by tha police 'cause he wasn't certified. He say this guy be tha baddest muthafuckin' freestyle accountant around, and all tha bidnesses in town have him account they shit on tha sly. Roukema say this accountant's street name be CPA-ONE, even though he ain't certified, and if he like me, I can join his posse and learn to account shit freestyle.

For tha next year, I wuz runnin' wit CPA-ONE, and I learned my accountin' from him. CPA-ONE wuz tha best friend tha Top-Dog ever had. He show me how to balance spreadsheets, reconcile ledgas and troubleshoot variations. He even teach me Lotus on this laptop computa he carry around. He also show me how to use a letta opener, which come in useful, 'cause we wuz always bangin' wit' rival accountant gangs who be tryin' to muscle in on our turf. Sometimes things wuz tough, 'cause tha pigs wuz on our dicks, and we didn't always know where we be layin' our domes at night. But in a way, mah homies, those wuz tha best days of my life, 'cause me and CPA-ONE, we wuz doin' our own thang, buck wylin' and shit, accountin' on tha run, know what I'm sayin'?

But tha good times didn't last.

One night, me and CPA-ONE met these two freaky hos at the Sunrise Motor Lodge for what we thought would be some accountin' in exchange for booty, but tha hos turned out to be undercova cops. A muthafuckin' sting operation. We wuz convicted of third-degree white-colla crime, and CPA-ONE be sentenced to three years in minimum-security lockdown, and I go to juvenile hall, 'cause I still be a minor.

One day, I gets tha news that CPA-ONE wuz killed at tha minimum-security pen by a fellow inmate who aimed a tennis ball-throwin' machine point-blank at him on tha prison tennis court. Ends up, tha muthafucka who did it wuz some accountz-payable bitch who got jailed for extortin' a shitload of dead presidents from tha insurance company he worked for. It wuz then I decided to straighten out and reform wit' a quickness. Tha Top-Dog's plan wuz to get released early, get his high-school diploma followed by a two-year accountin' degree from a fully accredited bidness school, and find a job wit' a stable, mid- to large-sized company doin' accountz-reeceevable work. I wuz gonna do everything in my muthafuckin' power to avenge mah dead homey CPA-ONE and get back at them fuckin' accountz-payable muthafuckas. (Now all y'all know why I hates that Myron Schabe muthafucka, who be tha Accountz Payable Supervisa at MapleLeaf)

Sure enuf, shortly after my 18th birfday, I gets let out of tha j-hall on good behavior, gets my GED and go hustlin' for a job, hungry for action. MapleLeaf Office Supply hired me, and I give crazy mad props to them for takin' a chance on a ex-con like me who gots a checkered past and shit. They even paid my tuition so's I could gets my two-year accountin' degree from Eastech Bidness & Technical College. few years later, mah homies, I be tha Accountz Reeceevable Supervisa, and I gots my own fly cubicle and molded foam armchair wit' pneumatic height controls and fully adjustable lumbar support. There ain't no place I rather be than Mapleleaf, and I ain't never gonna leave, word to that. But I ain't never gonna compromise my street flava, to honor my man CPA-ONE, who teached me all tha accountin' skeelz I know. I love you, bruthah. Keep ya head up, and I'll see you at tha crossroads one day.

I be tellin' all y'all this shit 'cause I knows there be a lot of young wannabe playas out there who think tha Top-Dog be tha shit, and rightly so. 'Cause a lot of y'all be actin' like tha Top-Dog and talkin' my jive. And thas cool, but y'all be a buncha wack pretendas if y'all talk like tha Top-Dog but ain't got tha SKEELZ, know what I'm sayin'? It all be about skeelz, not just bein' hard. And thas tha straight-up shit, mah homies. Word.

Top-Dog out.

Tuesday, October 10, 2006


Yo, Check this out, I nevva understan those white-Foolz and their dump ass freakz so called NEWZKASTA, They will annoy the sheeit out of you at your own hizzy...via TV dat iz if you is dump enuv 2 watch their lame-ass lie....News.

You know how we do, from work you set back on your kowj, relax and get that remote control... here is the news

Peep this:



Latest Jihad Has Something For Everyone

MIDDLE-EAST, MUSLIM WORLD—Leaders of the New Mujahideen jihadist movement say their latest holy war should appeal to people from all walks of Muslim life. "If you like bombing, bomb manufacturing, effigy-burning, maintaining inflammatory websites, or just 'hajjing out,' for the heck of it, the Nu MIM - Mujahid-In-the-Making has something for you!" read a statement on the group's home page. "Jihad is better when friends come together!" The Nu MIM is expected to recruit several hundred like-minded fanatics to their holy cause of fighting Western imperialism before factional violence tears it apart later this year.

CNN reporting from middles east.

Here is FOX NEwS

Pectoral Muscles Targeted By Fitness Fundamentalists

MOGADISHU, SOMALIA—A videotaped statement shown Monday on Union-of-Islamic-Court television provides the most conclusive evidence yet that the Muslim bodybuilding extremist group AL-FURQAN has acquired dumbbells from an unknown source and could use them to target vulnerable, undeveloped muscle groups in their pectoral region. "I call upon the world to stand witness as I violently and repeatedly blast these pecs, purifying and rebuilding them into a shape pleasing to Allah!" a masked, shirtless weightlifter said in the tape, over the strains of Journey's "Don't Stop Believing." "Seven! Eight! Nine! God is great, and so are my pecs, trapezius muscles, lower back, and abs! Thirteen! Fourteen! The great Satan Of Flab will soon feel the burn!" State Department officials said the group is almost certainly a danger to themselves if they do not use better form and stretch thoroughly afterward. No one knows how they will build their skinny legs, state department assigned expert team to analayze this new terrorist trend with a big forehead and skinny legs.

Fox news reporting life from Mogadishu.

Damn, I can neva understand this newz machines..can you?

Wait, more newz to come.

Top-dog out.

Friday, October 06, 2006

My Shortie Day Care!

Yo, this is foe tha day-care peeps who tend to mah shortie, Baby Prince baby-Dawg M Tha Stone Col' Dopest Biz-ook-kizeepin' Muthasuckin' Badass Supastar Mohamed Tha Second. (His mama call him other freaky names, but she a bitch.)

First off, I wanna say that I ain't down wit' this lame-ass daycarin' bullshit. Adna—that's Baby M's moms—decide she wanna get educated. So, she said either I tend to tha shortie durin' tha day while she at school, or he gots to go to this Little Britches place on Commercial Road. So I said, "Shit, you high? Days I spend tendin' to bidness at MapleLeaf Joint. Can't that fuckin' mama o' yours, who always hatin' on tha Top-Dog, look afta tha Prince?" An' she said her mama have corns, or cancer, or somethin' beginnin' wit a 'C', an' so she can't look afta tha shortie no more.

So, whut that mean is, a bunch o' muthasuckin' strangers be lookin' afta my son an' heir to tha storied Moahmed Dixon accountz- reeceevin' legacy. Tha Top-Dog don't play that shit. But I ain't gonna give up my sweet, sweet gig at MapleLeaf. Tha place be givin' up tha mad scrilla, plus I just got one o' those desktop fridges you can keep yo' lunch in. Y'all best believe it goin' to good use, muhfuckaz. Besides, who gonna keep tha Prince in Pull-Ups if I don't keep krunchin' those numbahz?

You daycarin' amateurs ain't in tha clear wit' me, though. Y'all got a shitload o' shortiez in tha hizzy, but I don' want nobody forgettin' who Daddy M's boy be. I don't wanna come collect tha boy one day an' find him wit' a load in his pants an' about to stick his tongue inna 'lectric socket, 'cause all y'all off in anothah room playin' some candy-ass game wit' chutes an' laddaz. So I come up with this list o' rulez y'all best heed. 'Cause y'all workin' foe me now. An' if y'all don't like it, go find a betta payin' gig wit' Blu Kross/Blu Shield benefizets, where y'all get treated wit' some respect. Feel me?

Make sure he wear his goddamn sweata. He got this li'l acrylic sweata-vest just like his Pops, an' I keeps it in his backpack next to his solah calculata. I know how you muhfucks like to keep tha thermoshizat down 'cause you figure all tha shortiez create they own heat when they runnin' around. But ain't no boy o' mine gonna catch his death 'cause some pencil-pusha wanna cut corners. Yo, an' check this: Y'all gots my permishizzon to trash that ill doll his moms keeps in his backpack. You know, that freaky-lookin' thing wit' tha red yarn hair an' check shirt. Thing got a tattoo on its chest sayin' "I love you." Tell her some other kid shit all ovah it or somethin', so you hadda torch it.

Don't feed him none o' that nasty-ass strained-carrot shit his mama give him. He almos' 2 now, and he ol' enuf foe Skittles an' Slim Jims an' Andy Capp Hot Fries. If it good 'nuf foe tha MapleLeaf employee- breakroom vendin' machine, then it good 'nuf foe mah shortie. I better not hear no muhsuckaz dissin' tha office eats, not evah.

Rolez he can play wit' his li'l shortie homiez durin' playtime: CPA, bank tella, collections rep. If they play house, he can bust in an' audit 'em. Huh. That'll teach the li'l muhfucks. If they play store, he can play cashier, but he gotta be all bidness: no sleepin' on tha job or quittin' his post an' goin' shoppin' like a li'l pussy girl. An' he can't claim no employee discount. An' if they play office, I betta not see him workin' tha accountz payabo. Give that shit to one o' tha weaker shortiez.

I best never see mah boy in one o' them huge-ass strollaz that carry a dozen or so shortiez. I got mah reasons.

He can watch tha show wit tha freaky puppet bloodsucka that counts off tha numbahz. Back inna day, that same show used to have a pinball-machine cartoon wit numbahz in it, too. That wuz dope. But my boy can't watch nothin' else, 'specially not that wack sponge wit' no dignity.

Don't let none o' tha shortiez use his special sippy-cup, neither. It gotta blue top an' somethin' on its side—uh, what's the shit—oh, yeah. A duck. It a gift from my ol' faculty advisa at Eastech Bidness & Technical College, Mr. Sherman. He wuz mad proud when he find out his supafly protégé got his freak on an' made a shortie. That don't happen too often in tha accountin' profession. But mah accountz reeceevin' posse gonna change that, no doubt. That remind me...

If all y'all daycarin' peeps spot some officin'-lookin' homiez kickin' back an' drinkin' wine coolahz on yo' property, don't call tha 9-11. That jus' mah posse. They used to chill in tha H&R Block parkin' lot, but them tax foolz decided they had enuf an' called tha pigz. The homeboys got they asses outta there befoe they could be busted foe vagrancy, but all this pig harassment mean they runnin' outta places to hang. So I tol' 'em about Little Britches, how y'all got this big-ass parkin' lot y'all hardly use and those def monkey-barz an' shit. Yo, don't hate. They peaceable, they got crazy love foe Baby M, an' they ain't lookin' to brawl. Although tha monkey-barz might come in handy if the homiez go toe-to-toe wit' tha pigs, an' they gotta do some freaky mystical Shaolin shit. You know, twirlin' aroun' an' as they dismount, they kick in a sucka's head somethin' like 60 times in a half-second befoe touchin' the ground. Jus' sayin.'

Shee-it. Writin' up this list be somethin' no self-respectin' A.R. bruthah should evah do. Daycare. Huh. Back inna day, mah moms an' pops both led tha Workin' Life, but they didn't put me in no day care. I wuz straight-up latchkey. Got my ass off tha schoolbus, let myself in, stripped down to my Underoos, fixed me a bowl o' Quisp, an' sat down to a aftanoon o' 3-2-1 Contact an' Tic Tac Dough. I ain't lookin' foe yo' goddamn sympathy. I wore that house-key bling aroun' my neck wit' mad pride. Even then, tha Top-Dog took care o' bidness, an' didn't need no daycare sucka chasin' afta him wit' a ass-wipin' cloth an' a juice box. Solitude good foe a shortie; it build characta an' shit. Peep this: Soon as tha Prince in kindergarten, he gonna kiss muhsuckin' daycare goodbye an' wear his own house key on a bright orange shoelace, jus' like his pops. I'll see to it. Top-Dog out.


Yo! it is about time when all corporate slaves think about their bonus....this year you could be like this one guy here. I hope you enjoy your phat cheque from human resource department for your hard fucking work! peanuts..duh!




Wednesday, September 27, 2006


Statshot Top Remodeling R