Favorite Rappers Pt. Uno

One of my favorite rappers today..

http://twitter.com/YesIamQuESt

And this isn't even on his newest mixtape. Old Shit.

Second Handers

"Yes! And isn't that the root of every despicable action? Not selfishness, but precisely the absence of a self. Look at them. The man who cheats and lies, but preserves a respectable front. He knows himself to be dishonest, but others think he's honest and he derives his self-respect from that, second-hand. The man who takes credit for an achievement which is not his own. He knows himself to be mediocre, but he's great in the eyes of others. The frustrated wretch who professes love for the inferior and clings to those less endowed, in order to establish his own superiority by comparison. The man whose sole aim is to make money. Now I don't see anything evil in a desire to make money. But money is only a means to some end. If a man wants it for a personal purpose -- to invest in his industry, to create, to study, to travel, to enjoy luxury -- he's completely moral. But the men who place money first go much beyond that. Personal luxury is a limited endeavor. What they want is ostentation: to show, to stun, to entertain, to impress others. They're second handers. Look at our so-called cultural endeavors. A lecturer who spouts some borrowed rehash of nothing at all that means nothing at all to him-- and the people who listen and don't give a damn, but sit there in order to tell their friends that they have attended a lecture by a famous name. All second-handers.

...

A truly selfish man cannot be affected by the approval of others. He doesn't need it."

--Ayn Rand, "The Fountainhead"

Man Research

The brainchild of Blac Garner and Vince Hill.

Once we get enough money for equipment that's not shit,

We will shit on your favorite rapper...

But that's not the point.

The point is getting the music out of us because if we dont, we'll go crazy.

Our music is purely selfish.

http://www.youtube.com/manresearchmusic

#Sex&Ego

Man Research-

man, so that we never forget our place in this universe. with all of it's beautiful limitations

research, as the catalyst between science and magic..

#thinkaboutit

The World in My Head Pt. 2

“The people must have a voice!”

Alexander Nelson had to kneel quite a bit to bang his gnarled fist on the desk. He was a tall man but this action made his anger seem small and a little forced. Had the man on the other side of the desk been facing his direction it would have been this action that made his entire argument ineffective. As it stood, it was not. And he did not move his fist.

The cheery mahogany wood stood in defiant contrast to his rather violent motion. In fact, everything in the office of Mr. Pierce Spencer seemed to be mockingly pleasant. The lamp in the corner whispered a dull yellow across the ceiling that reflected onto the simply furnished field of deception below. Three walls opened up to a colossal window that Mr. Spencer often, as he found himself doing now, gazed out of with wonder. Spencer liked to pretend the button on the side of his chair, which he used to call his receptionist, was a remote control that if he wished, he could press and change the channel of his 24 hour view of the New York City skyline. He knew it was that easy. Reminding himself of this made him feel mighty and feeling mighty was of utmost importance to him, though to admit it would’ve made him quite uneasy. The curtains on each side of the window wall were black with white trim. Spencer hated to be too extravagant. He found it distastefully obvious. His desk, though almost as wide as his room, was as simple as the things on it. A silver, translucent paperweight shaped as a pyramid stood calmly on the slightly fluttering sands of paper beneath it. A small radio muttered softly, filling the air with a slight touch of Beethoven. A laptop, a pen, and a small box of tissues all sat patiently in the middle arranged in a fashion that seemed carelessly neat.

Nelson hated it. All of it.

And since his ego would not possibly allow him to see his hatred for himself in these items, he directed all of this energy towards the man sitting in the chair, staring wistfully out the window.

“What exactly do you want me to do?”

Spencer said these words slowly as if he could taste each one and regretted not keeping them in his mouth longer. He had not, at one point in the conversation, turned to face his attacker. He received a silent thrill overtly showing that he knew Nelson knew he was beneath him. All those who knew Spencer would describe him as a strange and quiet man. Spencer enjoyed this and he knew all those who knew him were idiots. He enjoyed that as well. He began to stroke his mustache, as he always did when he knew for sure his actions tormented someone.

“Have you not been listening? You cannot shut my newspaper down! We are the only independent source in this part of the city. By destroying us, you are destroying the voice of the people. I warn you Mr. Spencer…”

Nelson stopped talking when Spencer suddenly turned his chair around. As they locked eyes, Nelson could feel the hair on the back of his neck rise to meet his collar. Nelson was not an easily scared man but there was something in the look that Spencer now gave him that made him want to go home, pack his things, and leave for the other side of the world. Recognizing the desperation of easy prey, Spencer slowly clasped his hands together and staring directly through Nelson he began to speak in an even tone, similar to how one would speak to an angry child.

“You seem a little confused, Mr... eh, Nelson is it? In order to have a voice, one must have a mind. The people do not have a mind. They think whatever I want them to think, whenever I want them to think it. They are all totally plugged in to me. I could get it in my head that I want the sky to be pink and by tonight I will have everyone all over the world convinced beyond reason. You think your little shit newspaper matters? The average human being barely spends enough time off of the web to wipe their ass correctly let alone read a fucking paper.” Spencer cocked his head to the side. His lips slowly extended into a wide smile as a look of shocked anger began to spread on Nelson’s face.

“But, you know this already... Yes, I can see that. You understand that I hold more power in the tip of my pinky finger than you will ever have in your entire life. And yet, you cannot bring yourself to stop fighting. Well consider it an early Christmas gift. I’m putting you out of your misery, you blind, spineless twit. You’re no better than the rest of these idiots. Now you’ll be unemployed, just like them.”

Spencer liked watching his words settle amongst the furrows of the now red face of Mr. Nelson. But he turned his chair around anyway.

“You may see yourself out.”

Nelson almost shook with rage as he brought out his .50 cal Magnum.

“Go to hell,” he said.

“I’m looking at it,” replied Spencer.

He said his last words almost whimsically, with a satisfied smile on his face that told the crushing story of the human spirit.

Fuck Wayne's Lying Ass

"The World In My Head" Pt. I

Recently, it seems like everything I do fucks up. I'm fast becoming an habitual and seemingly professional fuck-shit upper, or as I like to call it, fucker-upper (has a nicer ring to it, sounds like something a little kinky, and I am a fan of kinky..even when that bitch ignores my calls).

I've invested my time in shit that's fell through, most of the people I've incorporated in my life don't matter to me and don't give a shit about me... I'm beginning to suspect that secretly they've been plotting my demise.
So..
I'm either on the verge of an epiphany, a breakdown...
Or I'm showing symptoms of schizophrenia.
Either way, something's up.

So I've decided to fall back on my ego. But to the extreme.
Extremego.
Sounds like a Pokemon.
Or the name of Freud's son.
Extremego.
I am God.
That's right you fucks. The creator of all things is....
me.
Now I know what you might be thinking right now... So shut the fuck up. Nobody asked you. You don't matter. I'm God.
I am the creator of all I see, hear, taste.. You know.. sense and shit. There is nobody but me. All of you are merely the creation of my very powerful will and imagination. I was lonely. So, I decided to create you fucks. Now knowing that having puppets would do nothing for my loneliness, I made it so that all of you act seemingly independent of my will. And to convince myself, I made myself forget that I was God. But, in the words of one of my more brilliant creations, I've "misunderestimated" myself. So I've remembered.
Thank God/Me!
Being worried about what you think all the time was getting extremely bothersome. I had to figure out how to live amongst you and matter to you. Now none of that matters. It's like a breast of fresh air, a fuckload off my shoulders.

God smiles on you today.

You see I've been assuming this whole time that I am like you.

I've assumed that because you all die. I, too, will one day die.

But now I have nothing to worry about. Why worry about something that I can never know? ... Something that just doesn't exist to me.

You.

Yep, that's right... Not. At. All.

I'm free. And it feels good. And Yes..

You should be scared.

The Dutch Master Scripts

First I'd like to apologize to my audience for not finishing the #30Days30Poemas movement, I will as soon as time allows..

I've begun memorizing some of my poems for an audition to perform with Saul Williams and Amiri Baraka in the Howard Homecoming Poetry Cipher. The audition is this thursday.. Wish me luck!

This post is dedicated to something different. Last semester, a friend of mine, in true collegiate spirit, passed out a brochure of sorts (more like an essay in the three column brochure form).. It read as follows:

"The African American, excuse me negro female is the (often unknowing but many times aware) ardent ally of the white supremacist campaign to weaken the condition of the 'African' man. She is all too often the virulent, insidious, enemy from within while the overt, vigilant forces attack in concert from without. I am aware that this is a sweeping indictment of 'her' with straight talk. But the salvation of the African man comes from his self-redemption and his total amputation from the (deliberate quotes) Negress and the gangrene decaying of his masculinity that she represents. Now notice I have defined my terms specifically. The African female and the Negro female are 2 separate entities. So do not be alarmed. My position is overwhelmingly grounded in reality. The Negro female makes statements like the following 'Some people gotta sleep with some people just to get money, but why should I sleep with you if I can get money from you otherwise.' The value system of the Negro woman is apparent; avariciously acquisitive, malevolently materialistic, soul drainingly self-interested, and nastily narcissitic. The African woman in her proper form is quite a different creature (regardless of her geographic origins). Most notably she does not believe that a man is only what she can consume of him and from him. He is much more. (He is a MAN) The African man is much more. He is a man with a soul independent of most western norms. He is not defined by the human properties of slavishness and stupidity so well exhibited by the negro man. The negro man and woman should be together so they can destroy themselves in righteous genocide to the benefit of true Africans, the true black people. I tell men that they key is to get grounded in principles. "If a woman does not have solid ethnic ties, don't fuck with her!" It is evident from the divorce rates and the non-marriage statistics amongst negro women. 74% of negro women will never get married. It is their natural fate. They get guys locked up, divorce and despoil them, betray and beguile them. The African woman does not do this (at least not to a single degree in that frequency). The negro woman is often not satisfied to partner with a man. She must imprison or enslave him, or abandon and reject him. She often has no true loyalty to a loyalist; no ethical framework of any worth. She can be said to have pseudohumanity, for she has mind/biology but a very undeveloped soul (as the Jill Scotts' of this hemisphere might have). The problem is that men who acquiesce this are divided by the archaic idea that (all) females are delicate (in this environment). As black people, our men are vulnerable to no avail and no response by and because of our often alleged 'partners', but look at the lock up rates. Black (Negro women) are the parties that get 'niggas' locked up on false charges, despoil them in divorces, and institute or reinforce restraining orders to the satisfaction of the 'other' man, at the expense of our community. Where are our Michelle Obamas that would date us at higher levels even with holes in the floors of our cars? Where are our Assata Shakurs? They have been replaced by T&A dolls, obsessed with conspicuous consumption and machinations of bubble headed popular culture and fashion. These are our wives! Hell no, is what I say! Rebel against the agents the white man has made us think we must breed with and cater to. The Black man of Africa is the head of his home (literally). The American black man cannot speak the same of himself. Why? The answer is that his woman is a mercenary looking out for herself (most) often times. She is sexually disloyal, morally inept, as far as virginity is concerned, naturally inapplicable. She is often a harlot that pretends to be a wife, often to the detriment of a loyal man. In her self interest you can see the areas that she helps the 'other' man demasculate US. She is his partner! But not the true African woman, No! She is the stalwart of her community and the advocate of her man. The 'Negress' wears clothes to entice the sinful nature of a man so that she can engage in her duplicitous prostitution with impunity, because several blank minds in charge of penis' have ratified her. It is time to stop! We must now as Africans embrace women of communal, moral character. My friends, I have a solution. From my extroverted point of view, it's too late for the army of prostitutes of our kind. The values of community are more often than not determined by its women. So 'if a man could f*** a woman in a cardboard box, he wouldn't buy a house!' is true in this paradigm. Negresses love find fabrics, jewelry, luxury and spacious estates. That's how they assess and value a man. An African woman wants good tangibles too, however her first priority is to find a man that is pious, loyal, integral (familial), truthful, and philosophical for she knows that the tangibles will flow from there. She does not believe 'he is' those things is the fundamental difference. So this is the declaration; Any man seeking a good woman should acquire himself a passport and seek the bevy of beauty in Beirut, Dakar, or darker in the Lagosian metropolis of Lagos, the many maidens of mainland or coastal Morocco, or even in Maranhao, Brazil. There are so many more sisters of our lovely race on this planet than the degenerates the white man has produced for us as monopolistic xx chromosomes. 'Seek and you will find', unless you're a male negro in which in that case I encourage you to seek negresses as brides so that your destruction can at least bring about the process of elimination. The African American women of old have long faded from the scene and now all I can try to do is uplift my brothers and (true African) sisters. Any woman who is a true African in her soul, "please treat her right" is my word to my brothers. To the haranguing harlots of Howard, I especially wish that you get what you deserve.

Gratsi Dr. Zero"

Comments and questions are welcome. Let's have some discourse about this matter.