I know rape when I see it. If you ever going to the islands, get you some "fat man just landed on me insurance". Get yo' shit together because you may never ever walk again after hitting up one of these clubs. No Limit Tuesdays is Not Safe For Life. This shit right here... [DURTY MO] is responsible for this wackiness!

I know I may be the devil with a keyboard [in your eyes], but I don't want it to be this way. I know that one day you plan on catching me in a Wal-Mart, bent over in the produce section, picking some nice fresh greens for my momma and you'll turn over your shopping cart on my ass. I know this. And it's because of this blog. Insert sad face here.

I know a lot can happen to damage your family. I mean, look at Kizzy... And there you have it. So sometimes this place is not ideal or suitable for children. Particularly your child. He's as cute as a button and I bet as bad as Latarian Milton, but that's just me judging children. I don't really care for the under ten variety. Don't ever ask me to babysit. For real, for real. You won't recognize your kids when you come pick them up, if you leave them with me. Ask some of my kinpeople if you think I'm lying. One bitch might suggest you call CPS, but that won't really work... I don't have kids for nobody to take away. Praise God.

But I digress.

This may be a half-assed attempt at showing you, I do have a heart and I'm not out to destroy your one true source of happiness. Don't listen to Gabrielle Union, boo. She ain't nobody. Her performance in "Bring It On" was lackluster and "Deliver Us From Eva" is a BET Blackbuster special every 6th of the month. Blogs aren't the devil. Bloggers aren't the devil. Sometimes it's the content. Most of the time, it's the readers willingness to Google search "Creole Pimp" and come here and read about fifty posts before they really decide, "This is some straight up nigotry and I will have no parts of it".

Again, I digress.

The point of this entry was to appreciate you on "your" day. It may not be heartfelt, it may not be totally sincere, but it is somewhat real. Are you confused, yet? I sure am. Let's be confused together, that way we can finally see eye-to-eye. But don't see this as a half-assed gift, because if this was a real Lil' Creole Pimp post, he woulda said he got you a big ol' hug, all the love in his Creole heart and a box of Baby Jamz crayons so he can help you color your outfits and look Solange Fierce.

Hope you doing well your with your life, liberty, and your pursuit of tackiness.

Happy Mother's Day

No one gives a flying fuck about your grilled chicken. We just wanted a free meal. Redeem my coupon or discontinue that play dough looking ass yard bird.

Readers looka here.

Every now and again, I gotta come back and remind a few peoples that this is not real. Reality doesn't start nor end on this blog. There may be photographical "proof" that a toddler is being mascoted around to be a "pimp", but I use Photoshop. And since Photoshop's inception, you can't believe no pictures you see on the Inanets.  There may be typographical "proof" stating such foolishness as kids cursing and fighting and shanking and refusing to put a ring on it, because he gon' be a playa for life. Again... Since the inception of the black celebrity humor blog, you can't take everything you read for face value. Not everything has a secret meaning, hidden messages and eleven herbs and spices. Some SHIT is just there to be there. And even though, there's no videographical evidence that I participate, infiltrate, and initiate in stupid, coonishness, ever since those cops got off for beating Rodney King's ass... I guess you really can't believe videos no more either.

I digress.

Either way, fuck the vast majority! I'ma keep on keeping on and rock this motor scooter 'til the wheels fall smoove off. Until I receive the ceast and be deceased from The Mustache Man, I'ma stick around like roaches. And when they tell me to stop, they better kill me. They better buss up in this motherfucker and send me to the Upper Room! Let 'em shoot me. I don't give a fuck. They'll take me out singing that motherfucker!

When Jeeee-heeeeeeeee-zeeeeeeeez...

G'evening, fam. For those of you who was looking for that purp today at my usual SPOT [COMMENT BOX], sorry for my absence, but like Jeezy say... "I GOT SHIT TO DO!" Anyways, tonight The Nigga Network will be airing the aftermath to the episode I like to call "Brandon got mushed". Google that quote and all kindsa nigotry comes back. I'll be watching and tweeting my ass off. FUCK WITCHA BOY! Me, Fresh, Young Sinick, Kid Fury and other no good niggas will most likely be giving you feedback and our thoughts and random rants and other fly shit.

One question though:

WARNING: The material below is mean for no reason. Read at your own risks. Feelings are for pussies. They are just words. Vote for Obama and drink Colonel Bubble. [edited on 12/31/09]

Who is this Kyle stand in? That does not look shit like Kyle. Kyle looks like a HOT TRANNY MESS on TV. If a killer whale had mutant sex with a mossy, poisonous tree trunk, by fission and/or budding Kyle would be born. That's what he looks like on TV. This fella? That's not Kyle. Eh... And Brandon looks like a Muppet at all times.

Tune in at the 8/9/10 PM hour. I'm not sure what time it airs, I just know it's on a Tuesday. Tonight's is not only the aftermath of the mushing, but someone also steals Kyle ribs from Bobby Buford's BBQ Hut & Bingo Hall. After a failed eating disorder [thanks QUICK], I don't think he need too many ribs. Especially with the Cottle running rampant.

Maybe God's tryna tell you something.

This is why you shouldn't join Team Rihanna. My Tee-Tee's music will never 'cause small, fat children to run up your light bill and blow light bulbs.

SIDEBAR: I will PayPal a dollar to WHOMEVER can find out this piglet's gender.