Monday, October 14, 2013

CLA

Man, I've been busy. But I took time to put down my thoughts on this CLA and whatnot. Y'all mawfuckas enjoy and shit. 

Okay, now look, before I even go into this shit, lemme make it clear: I LOVE MERCEDES-BENZ. I've owned a few of them over the years, from balla as a mawfucka, all the way to EBT/buy-here-pay-here concourse levels of Benz. But what in the fuck made these niggas think that this CLA shit was kosher? No nigga, y'all thought mawfuckas was just gonna sit back and let y'all just do this shit? Y'all though y'all was gonna sell us a Louis Vuitton bag with the monogram backwards? Do we look like tourists mawfucka? I gotta spend an extra $1500 just to get leather seats and a soft touch dash in a car that not only already costs $30k but has a fuckin Mercedes emblem on the front of it. Nigga, who the fuck told y'all it was okay to sell a Benz here without leather seats in the first place? That shit already was unacceptable as a mawfucka on the C-Class, and THEN you bastards thought lets take the A-Class, take all the practicality out of it, and sell it to Nigga-Americans who basically only see the brand on the front if that bitch in the first place. Touché, you stuck up South German bastards. A real nigga roll up in Swabia and I bet y'all be shook. Not to mention I'm still about to whoop y'all ass for the Airmatic going out on that W220 S500 while I was on the freeway. But y'all some assholes for real, y'all built a name and an image and shit here in America just so y'all can get cheap and make a huge profit off an image. Fuck y'all, first off for pricing that shit only $5k below the base pice of a C-Class even though it's $10k less car. Second off y'all wrong as hell for offering an illuminated emblem on car so fuckin dumbed down it don't deserve the emblem in the first place. Also, stop calling that shit a coupe. Stop calling the CLS a coupe too. BMW got the same problem, but imma leave them out of this shit. This ain't a coupe, or a sport coupe, or even a luxury car for that matter. Why can I go buy a Mazda 6 with a nicer interior, leather seats, and more room for less money? Why is a car made in Hungary still so expensive? Why y'all think we stupid Mercedes? Why y'all ain't tell niggas the CLK was just a C-Class coupe? You know what the CLA is? It's like if Breitling decided to make a smaller version of the Navitimer with a Quartz movement. It looks like the good shit, but it ain't the good shit. It's an ugly lie, like getting catfished by a ugly bitch on twitter, but you still fuck with her cause she be wearing designer shit. See, that's what Mercedes done dumbed down to: designer shit. Niggas wear designer shit to give off an impression of wealth and shit. Man, fuck this shit, I done got so mad I don't feel like writing no more. Fuck Mercedes, fuck the CLA, and fuck you fatherless, Starbucks soy latte drinking, Coach wearing mawfuckas that are gonna buy this shit. I'm out. 

Saturday, October 12, 2013

Porsche Stories Vol. 1


Alright you dusty mauhfuckas, here it is, my first piece of semi-fictional goodness and shit. This is the first in a series of stories I'm gonna do. Drop me some feedback and shit when you're done. 

It was another trife night, at the same bar I ran through every Friday right at the stroke of 7 after work. I made a terrible habit of tossing the keys to the valet, it was so cliché that I shuddered slightly everytime I did it. Let's be clear: I don't go to bars looking for girls, it's not my thing. Occasionally, I might find myself meeting someone special, but it's rare at best. So I just approached the bar, sat down, ordered a martini and scanned to see if any of my friends were in view. I didn't see anyone I knew so I just settled into a review of my mediocre day, that blended seamlessly to the other shitty days I experienced. I began to think about the fact that I only carried my red valet key on Fridays. I woke up on a Saturday around 12 and got dressed to go pick up some food at the market. I grabbed my keys and realized the key for the Targa was missing from my caribiner. I ran to the garage and it wasn't to be found. So I troweled back through the house, to go out the front door to my nosy, elderly neighbour's house. Hopefully she saw me pull in with the 911 last night. As soon as I pulled open the door, my lovely brown Porsche was sitting there sinking into my front lawn. I finally found my key, it was sitting in the ignition, it had been there all night. I quit drinking for 3 months after that. Drinking like that was dumb, especially over a woman. Right when I began to feel sorry for myself, I couldn't help but see something beautiful walk up on the bar. She grabbed a Stella Artois from the bartender, and didn't turn a full foot from the bar before she tipped it up to her face. Now someone like me can't resist that level of lunacy, so as soon as my foot hit the floor me and my martini were right behind her. She stopped at a table on the exterior terrace, and sat looking over our insignificant city. As I set into a longing gaze, I couldn't help but notice the unmistakable sound of a 911 Turbo. As I looked down I remembered my old 911, a 996 Turbo, black on black. I remember how she told me that car was an ostentatious waste of money. I was still in high school then, and me and her were still imagining our future together. We were arguing that night when that Kia changed lanes in front of me.
"Maybe this thing would feel safe to me if you didn't drive it so fucking fast."
"Maybe if you stopped nagging, I can get us home and we can figure this out in bed."
"Just pay attention to the..."
And in that instant a green Kia Rio appeared in the lane and there was nowhere to run. I miss that car more than I miss dating her. My mind ran back to the beautiful specimen of woman sitting fifteen feet away from me. She had been sitting alone for a good while now, never once glancing around for someone. 
"Hey, anyone sitting with you?"
"No, but I suppose you can if you want."
As I began to talk to her about how fast Charlotte's skyline has changed, I reminisced on a rust oozing, silver 911S Targa that I rode in as a child with my father pointing the long-forgotten past to me. 
"Over there was nothing but black people when I was coming up, now they done tore down all these wards, and now it's 'downtown'. Second Ward School used to be right there, and Uncle Mozel used to live down there."
I was surprised my history lesson didn't force her eyes to glaze over, a set of steel-blue eyes, vivid, with the type of depth you couldn't measure. They sat in a pale face, somehow round, but never fat. The questions about my history lesson began to slow down as we approached the valet. Until she stalled with a question.
"I presume you'll be following me. If you can keep up."
I chuckled under my breath. 
"I think you won't have to worry about that."
My smirk melted when her car arrived at the valet. A lime green 911 GT3 RS. My brown Targa 4S then pulled into view. My night just got interesting. 


Thursday, October 10, 2013

Beauty/Death

Well y'all, I'm back, don't judge me and shit, but I'm back with a poem I wrote a while back and shit. Leave some feedback if you want, cause tonight I have a semi-fictional story coming right at you. But for now read this:



A cold wind blows
Red-orange leaves flow across the horizon
An astute mind knows
Not all is perfect, for his past is not behind him
This scene
Though beautiful, lacks depth
This scheme
That beauty can cover up death
The wind slowly calls her name
You stand
Your look stays the same
As the leaves turn to rain
And wash away the ridiculous expression of pain
You find an umbrella
Yet it doesn't dry the disdain
That sits upon your face so idle and vain
So quickly the rope cuts the skin and you gasp
No face to go along with the tight grasp
It seems that beauty can't cover up death
The rain, oh the rain, can cover what's left.