Man Laws:

1. If you can grow a beard, grow a fucking beard. PERIOD.



2. After the age of 12, any physical pain you suffer shall not result in tears. I don't care if you've compound fractured your femur, suck that shit up and rub some dirt on it.

3. After you have experienced your first heartbreak, crying over a woman is a waste of valuable time that could be better spent chopping down trees and enjoying that massive beard you have grown since that bitch left.

4. It is completely acceptable to cry during the movies "Fried Green Tomatoes" and "Old Yeller".



5. When given the option to fuck or have your laundry done... Get the laundry done. If she was willing to fuck you before doing the laundry, she will be willing to fuck you after the laundry is done. That laundry ain't gonna do itself.



6. Never leave the fo' sho' pussy fo some mo' pussy.

7. With the exception of your's truly, YOU are NOT getting any better looking with age.

8. You married your high school sweetheart? Congratulations DICK. You never get to see another stitch of tail for the rest of your life.

9. Drinking on your lunch break is completely acceptable, so long as it is a light beer. Save the leaded for after work.

10. If you can't change a tire, kill yourself RIGHT FUCKING NOW.

11. There is no such thing as "the right one", there's the one you want, the one you got, the one you could never have, and the one you wished you never met. In no particular order, of course.

12. If you have won every fight you've ever been in, you haven't been in enough fights.

13. You don't pay the hooker to fuck you, you pay her to leave.

14. If the restaurant does not have a minimum of 3 DIFFERENT cuts of red meat, walk the fuck out.



15. Mother comes before all other females.

16. Happiness, for the most part, is completely fabricated. The only truly happy people in the world are the people who, in all sincerity, do not give a FUCK.



17. The number of true friends you have in this world can be measured on one hand, anything beyond that, you don't comprehend TRUE friends.

18. If you are still currently backing Obama's health care initiative, your balls are gone.

19. Respect is earned, never given.

20. Silence is golden.



21. If your girl has more guy friends than girl friends, she's cheating on you.

22. All women are sisters and would rather eat your heart than give birth to your spawn.

23. If you've never caught a fish... I don't even have to finish.

More on this later...

-Ollie

Hold The Fuckin' Phone: Shyne is Out?!?!

This day has seriously been on my mind for years now. The release of Jamal Barrow a.k.a. Shyne Po of the once infamous, now debunkt Bad Boy family. Oh you didn't hear? Combat Jack put the people up on what was really poppin' behind the scenes at Bad Boy over on his blog, Daily-Math.com. The Reader's Digest version goes like this... Diddy tried to strongarm Interscope records, frontin' like he was still top billin' for the heavy loot cakes, Interscope responded with, what now looks to me, like a straight hostile takeover and sat Diddy's punk ass down with the quickness. Bad Boy headquarters is now officially closed down, and Bad Boy records as a label, as a movement, as the epicenter for some of the most classic hip hop tracks ever created, will now be manned from a corner office at Interscope records, withOUT Diddy pullin the strings.

Wait... Seriously? Bad Boy with no Diddy? I'm gonna go on record now and say that Bad Boy will never officially release another GOLD album for the rest of it's existence. The wheels have fallen off. The dynasty is finished. Like so many before it (read: Roc-A-Fella, Death Row, Loud, etc.), Bad Boy has gone the way of the Buffalo. Has the last great piece of Hip Hop history fallen at our feet? The signs of Armageddon are real people. Let's read thru Nostradomus' works and cross reference the words Diddy/Bad Boy/End of Times, I'm sure Science can figure out a way to Blame Puff for ending the world. I mean, he did end Shyne's life...

Or did he...?

I'm not sure if it is neccessary or not to give the back story as to what happened that cold New York City night that ended with Shyne takin' the hit for the squad (like a true soldier), but I have to assume that all the minions and followers are not quite "up on shit".

The story that I believe most, (again, no one but J.Lo, Puff, Shyne, and a few other select individuals truly know what popped), is that Puff got yoked, decided to flex his bitchassness and pop a few shots at some cats to impress J.Lo, then threw the gun in Shyne's lap and said: "Do you want your record to come out? Take the heat".

Shyne, at this time was still a 21 year old goon straight out of the gutters of NY's mean streets, thuggin is in his blood, and at this time in the world of hip hop, what Puff said, was gospel.

Fast forward 3+ months, Shyne is facing 10 years for attempted murder, amongst other things. The verdict is read. Guilty.



The man who was supposed to bring Bad Boy back to the spot they so desperately sought after the loss of Biggie, is now takin' that trip up North for what, on paper, was reading as 10 full years.

Shyne goes up, and Diddy does as he promised and releases Shyne's first solo album to critical acclaim.

Pause... Some posts require some background music, and this, my dear friends, is one of them.



Press play before you move any further.

Shyne is the definition of Bad Boy. At the time of his arrest, Shyne had quite literally been, quote, unquote, "fuckin with" Puff for no more than a few months, but still sacked up and took the heat for Diddy's bitch ass to prove himself worthy of the throne that Biggie had left vacant some 2 years prior.

I'm gonna say this now and stand by it 'til the day I die, Shyne had the potential to be, excuse me for this, "That Nigga". I mean for real, for real. Shyne had it.

So now Shyne is hemmed up, troopin the bid like a loyal soldier.

The paparazzi caught Puff after the sentencing and asked him how he felt about the verdict...



Me too Puff, me fucking too.

This was all in 2000. In the years to follow, Shyne would remain silent behind the walls, never speakin out about the night in question, never givin up Puff and fingering him (no homo) as the man responsible, and how does Puff repay that debt?



naddagoodlook Puff...



The legacy that once housed the likes of Craig Mack, Black Rob, Notorious B.I.Fuckin G., The Lox, Junior Mafia, Lil Kim, etc. is now home to wack ass bullshit artists and cat-like motherfuckers like Que?

Oh hell nah Puff. Biggie is rollin in his grave every time Making The Band hits the airwaves.

Oh, and let's not forget the fact that Puff actually turned this hoe out:



(Quietly, on the low, yes I would.)

Where was I?

Oh right... Diddy is out here doin the Harlem Shuffle and building an empire all on the back and shoulders of Shyne's word as a man. It's the code of the street, it's the world I live in, "Snitches get Stitches", and Shyne never snitched. Not a word.



Let's just say, Shyne is out, and EVERY record label in the world better be offering up MILLIONS to my man.

I also firmly believe that Puffy needs to catch that realll ass whoopin' immediately. You can't pay back 10 years of someone's life, but you damn well better be comin correct with those "thanks for not snitchin" checks. I mean, I know Puff goes hard and strong arms these featherweight new-jack Making the Band types, but let me see you try that shit with Shyne Po. I'd give anything in the world to be in the building first time Shyne locks eyes with Diddy.

Don't think for one second that Shyne's rap game slacked at all, HELL NAH. If anything, my man is sharper than ever, I mean, bein locked up for 10 years with nothing but hatred in your heart and a brain full of thoughts, a man is bound and destined to produce one of the greatest albums Hip Hop has ever heard. Be checkin for that new Shyne album, whenever it drops.

Big ups to Shyne for being one of the last real soldiers in this bitch-ass infested world of hip hop.

Chuuurch.

-Ollie da Don

The Irony of Dying on Your Birthday:

And yes, that is indeed the title to a song by a poppy-screamo-metal band that I have spent WAY TOO MUCH time listening to over the last 2 weeks.

Oh yeah, AHEM! I'm back. Or something that might sort of resemble being "back".

God, this blog took a serious turn for the worse over the last month or so.

Let me say this, for those that are wondering, Yes, I am indeed still alive. No, I was not struggling with any form of writer's block. What I have been dealing with is more than I would wish on my most hated foe.

So here it goes, the story, the way I see it, and the way I want it told. To any and all who have played a part in this, I apologize for involving you in my mess. There I go again, apologizing. Fuck. I feel like Larry David over here.

Friday, September 11, 2009 (what an interesting day to choose to change my life ha!) I went to visit the tattoo shop. Not to get a tattoo, mind you, not at all. I went there to visit with my cousin, bullshit a little, and most importantly, I wanted to get some of that fancy carbon paper they use to transfer the drawing to the skin. I had this genius plan that it would work on canvas, and I had this pretty rad picture I drew sitting on my desk at home, just waiting to be painted.

So there I sit, chowin down pain killers like m&m's to comfort myself from the sense of loneliness and destitude that I have been wallowing in for the last several weeks when all of a sudden, I get the genius idea that I'm gonna get a new tattoo. At this point, I have no fucking clue what this tattoo will be, where it will go, or why I will get it, but nonetheless, I'm getting it.

I settle on the phrase "The Truth Shall Set You Free" over my "heart" or what, at that point, was left of it. So after the hustle of "how much" and alladat, I'm sittin in the chair, not feeling a thing, as I have been, for the last year or so, and 45 minutes later, I get up, go home, and take a look at my genius new insignia. For the record, I forgot the carbon paper all together, and couldn't for one second tell you what conversations I had, and with whom, or what, if anything, those conversations were about.

I go to sleep, alone, as I have been for the last month or so with the aid of my little yellow femme fatales. And no, I'm not talkin about petite asian masseuses, I'm talkin about these stupid little pills I've been force feeding myself to cover up the scars of emotional trauma under the guise of a fairly severe back injury I suffered back in high school.

Sleep is an excellent thing. So excellent, in fact, that I decided I was going to sleep the entire weekend away. Every time I woke up, I just took another handful and passed right the fuck back out. This went on until Sunday Morning...

The bottle is empty.

What will I do now?

That, my dear friends and followers, is when it hit me. I go to the bathroom, take a shower, and read the new ink permanently tattooed into my skin. The shit hit me like a stone Mason's hammer whilst building the Temple of Solomon (sorry, I watched a SHIT LOAD of History Channel in the numerous days to come).

"The Truth Shall Set You Free".

What a fuckin' concept.

The assessment of my life came at the urging from my mother. "You've been locked up sleeping for 40 hours straight, the fuck's your problem?"

And there it is folks.

**Time to get Honest**

I have a severe addiction to pain killers. One that ultimately had planned on sending me to an early grave, that, by this point in my life (Sunday night, not Today), didn't seem so bad.

What the Fuck? Awwwwww Hell Nah. I ain't goin out like that.

Get Real here.

So, Sunday Night I decided to clean up the act and cut the bullshit.

Despite the urging's of family members and other close confidants I said FUCK REHAB.

I am a grown ass man with the strength and will power to get thru ANYTHING.

The next Nine days of my life would prove to be the most difficult days I have ever been thru, or, for that matter, may EVER go thru.

I will not be specific in dosage amounts for sake of comparison to you or your friend's pill habits, suffice it to say, there was a LOT.

I'll do you a favor now and spare you the details of what was set to transpire, but this person I have been and was slowly turning into permanently was going to get the fuck gone, and your boy would be standing on his soapbox triumphant once again.

I can do this...

Whew.

Here I stand today, after 9 days of an agonizing detox coupled with the thrill of taking a loss in the realm of love, proving to myself, first and foremost, that I am capable of functioning without the use of those little crutches.

I guess that just about sums it up.

In retrospect, maybe this post should have been called Sunday Morning? Eh?

Bump that. Young Ollie in the building, and bout to shit all over the internets as soon as I get my strength back.

Thank you.

P.S. There is no chance I would have gotten thru this without the help of a few select individuals. No name droppin' tho, just know, without you, shit wouldn't have happened. LOVE.

I'm almost Back...

-Kevin M. Smith.