After picking up a suit, goin’ to a funeral because my homeboy got shot; I figured that I would take a moment to shout to the homies of the Interwebs. It’s rough out there, man; everyone’s a gangsta, all supa-fly, we’re all millionaires here, bling and bitches, baby. Now I’ll show you where rap is, and where we’re currently headed. THIS SHIT’S FO REAL.

(For the record, yes. These guys are serious.)

Now if you excuse me, I have to put a gun in my mouth. My fo-fo make sho all yall kids don’t gr

In the height of nostalgia, I decided to travel back in time this morning. Back to the magical year of 1993; during a place in time that was yet unmarred by the influx of the Internet. Clinton was inagurated, cassettes were still being utilized, and offered as an alternative to a CD; the Pixies disbanded while Kurt Cobain was still singing in the midst of his incomprehensible, drug-addled slurs. A year before Woodstock 1994, and the impending influx of Green Day’s Dookie album. (Being the year that they signed onto Reprise!) All the while, being nestled within the comforting embrace of my Super Nintendo; an entity in a now nicotine-yellow plastic box that is nothing more than a deadened shell of memories which once were. Now, to be a bastard preteen in the upswing of the later-early 90’s in the middle of the Ozarks, this brings only a few options in a childhood: The aforementioned Super Nintendo, scrambling the cable converter box to watch a hint of nipples on Cinemax, and interludes of Mike Malibu during afternoon cartoons.

The terrifying thing about the Internet, is that to talk about these things would warrant odd looks, awkward silences, and issue nothing short of a retort of an obligatory “…k.” - and I found myself wondering what happened to that guy that used to appear between cartoons in the Ozarks in 1993, and why would I give a shit? Lo and behold; the Google knows everything, and therefore, so do I. Which is why I will impart you with a glimpse of what was on the tiny little television in my bedroom, while I wasn’t constructing Lego forts out of a cat post.

Ice cream, pizza, and Discovery Zone! Fuck yes!

With Super Smash TV. Fuck yes.

The sheer fact that these things have been posted on YouTube, makes me terrified knowing that there were some other inherent failures which lingered in Springfield during 1993, watching that same nonsense to the degree of reminiscing about it; as if the notion of my self-worth wasn’t already driven into the ground. It was probably Mike Malibu himself; facepalming while showing his post-graduate kids what he used to do sixteen years ago. Sometimes, some things are better left unmentioned and otherwise untouched. Now get the fuck out of my time capsule.

So, it seems, much to our chagrin, Michael Jackson’s auction has been irrevocably canceled. Thus making the beginning of an end to the beginning of the end that is the end of a career and odd social mishap and overconsumption which should’ve ended fifteen years ago. Prior to baby dangling, abhorrent plastic surgeries that incite noserot, and slightly after “We Are The World”.

“Why do you do these things to me?!” You may ask while enduring the little gem posted above. Because, hurting you is synonymous with saying, “I love you.”, and because I have been ultimately denied of having a 1992 edition coin-op of “Lethal Enforcers”, I believe this distribution of pain and punishment is paramount in the height of making certain I am not the only one that suffers alone.

Also, Wordpress can suck the chocolate out of my balloon knot.