N2U’s Don Lee helps bring Strom Thurmond’s dream for the Negro closer to fruition by penning an ode to the black man’s kryptonite for our friends at McDonald’s.

I know what you’re thinking. “Who the hell is ‘N2U?’”

In case for some strange reason you missed “Baby Mama Love,” N2U is one of those groups considered a high risk to have a chocolateer defect for a project like this.

Aside from being a member of N2U, Lee only further perpetuates the stereotype of black men being shiftless womanizers.

I’m betting the Popeye’s version of this commercial would keep this scenario a little realer.

“Nigga, why are you still here? *sigh* *smacks teeth* I knew I shouldn’t have left you in here when I went to work in the morning.”

Only a bum-ass nigga who sat around a house other than his own all day would write a panhandler’s jingle for someone else’s chicken nuggets than go down the road and get his own. I wouldn’t give his bum ass a motherfuckin thing either. He couldn’t even get the nugget shavings or loose fries at the bottom of the bag.

Independent Sister Girl comes home from a hard day of work and a nigga wanna take chicken out of her plate? This is why I don’t let my nephew sit in front of The Negro Channel after school.

“This is about something you’re too young to understand, Little Man. This is about McNugget Love!“

My homegirl Cathryn Marie went in on the video this weekend and wrote a letter to the slavemasters at McDonald Corp. I recommend everyone give it a once over and offer a signature if the spirit moves you.

I, for one, am indeed “lovin’ it.”

Questions? Comments? Requests? Creeeeeeeeeepennnnn?! ron@ronmexicocity.com

As I alluded to on XXL, “Karaoke” is my favorite video right now. Strangely enough, it’s only knocking off the last couple of T-Pain videos. For a man I openly refer to as a minstrelish caricature of a musician, I admittedly can’t seem to take my eyes or ears off of his work.

I am thoroughly entertained by Pizzle’s complete minstrel package. *looks around* He’s got the clothing, accessories and cartoonish speaking voice necessary for grade-A coonery. As has been proven by the likes of Flavor Flav and Keyshia Cole’s mom (his female counterpart), even those harmed most by the buffoonery can’t avert their attention.

We shall overcome someday.

During the opening sequence–in which T-Pain and Kanye West have an uncomfortable men’s room exchange–Auto-Tune immediately becomes integral to the storyline. First, the A.T. is responsible for friends not being able to recognize one another. Then it clearly washes T-Pain’s post-piss hands, as he leaves the bathroom without even thinking about hitting the sink.

Later he’s gonna buy someone a drink and hand it to them. Mmmmm.

If you don’t laugh at the botched “Can’t Believe It” karaoke scene there’s something wrong with you. Either that or you might be Asian. That’s cool too.

Who can’t appreciate the rampant hostility in the video and its entertainment value? I mean, LMAO @ Khaled calling a table of middle-aged karaoke-goers “bitch-ass niggas” and shoving entire drinks into their laps. Without further provocation I checked myself to make certain I don’t display “karaoke fuck nigga” tendencies. I don’t think I have a complete handle on what constitutes “karaoke fuck niggardry,” but I’m pretty sure I ain’t one.

[Blogger's Note: Please ready your sarcasm detectors.]

Someone help me out. I can’t understand Khaled. Is he trynna say they’re “the best?” I’ve never heard him say such things before.

If you let these peninsular penisfaces tell it, everyone is the karaoke version of T-Pain’s already karaoke ass. I find it funny that he has the balls to mention Roger Troutman and Teddy Riley in one breath, then shit on everyone else implementing pitch modulation in exhale. Roger and the original Auto-Teddy could make the same argument as they were known for sucking the plastic dick first.

T-Pain references his children in the bridge. Does anyone know exactly how many Gummi Bears he has to feed?

Word to Akon taking us home… like, Soulja Boy‘s favorite vacation spot/“Love Lockdown” home. How did I know he could play those hand drums? Now, I’m thinking Akon’s greasy face and terrifying Cheshire Warlord grin should end every Konvict video.

I’m surprised he hasn’t already scared all of the Colby O’Donis hoes away.

Questions? Comments? Requests? Still think shit is sweet in the karaoke spots? ron@ronmexicocity.com

You can tell 50 Cent has been making movies during the better part of these past two years. The clip for “Get Up,” Fitty’s latest desperate plea for your attention, contains all the worst parts of your favorite cheesy action movies in one inexplicable 4-minute package.

If you’re a fan of aggressively being told what to do in a post-apocalyptic setting, this might be your favorite video.

Sorry, Fitty. I guess niggas is mad they spent all that money on them quarter waters when everybody know G2 is low in calories–and my mama like it. So if my mama like it, I like it.

What exactly are we looking at here? Is this the straight-to-BET Lackluster Cinema version of Universal Soldier 4: Back 2 Da Hood? Maybe this is the Will Smith-less cover for I Am Finished. Either way, somebody should make 50 aware that the whole Terminate On Sight marketing campaign didn’t work out very well. He may have been too busy steaming blunts with Val Kilmer to notice.

I guess Shady/Aftermath, like the Republican party, has committed to more of the same. They’re taking a hard line here with the Cyborg Gangsters, but if they keep sending troops maybe something will give.

Our hero clearly found reassurance from somewhere. The confidence in a line like, “My question is, ‘Who they gonna blame/ when I’m back #1 on the Billboard again?’” indicates that somebody done found The Secret. If you believe it, do some ecstasy with Banks and Yayo, and scantly represent it on an Etch-A-Sketch, you can achieve it!

We can also just stumble upon blackaneese video hoes dressed like Jamaican strippers in the middle of the war zone.

“Bloodclaat. A my Elektra dis!”

While this video’s redeeming qualities are few and far-between, I did learn something. 50 Cent will revive a half-dead stranger before he throws any more gorilla pipe to Vivica Fox. That’s good to know in the event I run into her at another Waffle House or something.

“Get Up” is very Kobe in its approach to keeping the ladies engaged. It’s reminiscent of Teddy Pendegrass, who–as wise man once said–“scared the bitches into giving up the pussy.” [Name that wise man.]

I still don’t understand the ending. Is Cap’n P.I.M.P. saving all the video hoes now? Them’s mixed messages like a motherucker coming from the nigga who made “Bitch, Get In My Car.”

[Blogger's Note: I've got room for all ye who wish to ride.]

Questions? Comments? Requests? Still think Vivica’s a good look? ron@ronmexicocity.com

Damn, homie. I thought Fantasia Barrino would have made enough money from The Color Purple whereas she’d never have to dance in anyone’s video again. I guess Harpo doesn’t pay as well as a nigga would think.

“Jimmy… *lip quivering* Jimmy BEAT me. But I ain’t gon’ let him pour no mo’ Cristal on me.”

Speaking of pouring champagne on inappropriate targets, what the hell is up with this bartender chick? Is she fuckin retarded? Why is she still pouring the champange into Ron Browz’s glass? Any hoodrat should know that fake Roleys ain’t cognac-resistant. That’s in the handbook. Page 79 of Hoodrat’s Guide to the Universe expresses this clearly.

A better set of questions includes, “Why the fuck doesn’t Ron Browz stop her from pouring all over his rented shit?” Maybe his hand is still numb from that “stranger” he gave himself after every “model” at the shoot turned him down thinking he was Memphis Bleek.

Sigh. Between this and “Aye-rab Money” I’m ashamed to be a Ron from Harlem.

Despite the massive amount of shit I’ve given them over the years, it’s nice to see some Diplomatic [Imm]Unity. Looks like somebody left Cam’ron off the e-vite, though. That’s pretty fucked up. You know shit is bad when Jimmy and Juelz invite Zeke and “forget” to CC: Killa.

Speaking of the dipshits–for a group of grown-ass niggas that put “no homo” at the end of everything, they sure looked content skeeting frothy champagne all over one another without having won no championship or nothin. Unless Jimmy finally won the Shit Without Shower national title, this could be misconstrued as “suspect” behavior.

–As in, “No homo, dick. Ummm. No homo.”

If there’s anything positive to take away from having watched this direct result of recession-related unemployment, it’s that Busta Rhymes has been spotted somewhere other than Dallas BBQ. Someone really should introduce him to the lite feet dance. If he’s gonna go on the N.O.R.E. diet he might as well burn calories while gettin twisted off shit us writers can’t pronounce.

Questions? Comments? Requests? Bust your ass in a Cristal Moet puddle? ron@ronmexicocity.com

What can I say about Soulja Boy that hasn’t already been said about Uncle Ben and Aunt Jemima?

While those with actual “swag” already know that it never need be turned on, Soulja Boy continues to misguide a generation of newer, hungrier thugs that lack the code and discipline of old-school gangsters.

Sorry–I was watching The Wire last night. That’s not what I meant to say.

Surviving a minute or so of this song and visual representation may be as difficult as surviving a year of West African diamond mining. I only do it in hopes of being reunited with my family separated by the R.U.F.

Sorry–I was watching Blood Diamond too. Shoutout to Kimora!

On the subjects of Africa and the diamond cluster cereal shown in the music video, Tellem had some choice words for RMC correspondent Tameka Mexico-Barclays:

“Oh, yeah. After what I said to that one yellow book-learnted nigga [Toure] got blowed all outta [pro]portion, I really wanted to get in tune with my African side. I figures like eatin them diamonds would be like eatin they African souls seein’ as how they gave they lives so I could stay fly. So now they like a part of me, you dig?” -Soulja Boy

Dependent Nation of Africa’s press secretary, Kwame Mumbambu was unavailable for comment.

Ironically enough, lyrics like, “When I was 9 years old/ I put it on my head that I’mma die for this gold” provide sufficient communion and parallel between SB and his African counterparts whose ancestors know not the wonders of American enslavement.

Speaking of slavery, the “Berrrd Wawwlk” looks and sounds like something Chicken George would perform on-demand for massa’s entertainment.

I mean, it’s not like they had BET back then or anything. Hoofin’ hadn’t been digitized yet.

I think it’s hilarious that Soulja went with a football-themed video for “Bird Walk,” as I’ve always thought he looks like a malnourished Plaxico Burress. He smiles as wide for jewelry as a famished child in Sierra Leone does for that U.N. bag of grain–that is, before a local warlord intercepts the delivery.

Since we’re already on Deebo watch, I must say, that last dude shown bouncing up and down in the homie rollcall around 2:45 is entirely too old to be playin with these little niggas. Maybe he’s The Rock to their S.O.D. Money Gridiron Gang?

I apologize in advance for all of this. No, not for the slavery and Africa jokes. Seven minutes of Soulja Boy is a bit much to ask of anyone, so thanks for rockin with the hate.

See you Monday. Stay classy, San Diego.

Questions? Comments? Requests? Recently develop an insatiable hunger for cornbread? ron@ronmexicocity.com

I can’t believe this idea survived the frat house living room joke circle.

“Look at the chocolate man. He’s absolutely faaaaascinating.”

Come on, now. If there were a spray that turned white boys into chocolate men, it’d never sell enough units to pay for the commercial spot.

“Ummm, that’s alright. You can have the soupbone and the ‘swaaaagger.’”

You know that “swaaaaaager” comes with snarky finger quotations.

There’s also no greater display of white entitlement than biting a stranger on the ass cheek. It doesn’t matter if he’s made of chocolate. If you bite someone’s ass on the bus, you’re sending a message of dominance matchable only by a nigga like Fleece Johnson.

Questions? Comments? Requests? Looking for the Vanilla Man spray so you can get a home loan? ron@ronmexicocity.com

Okay. Maybe that’s not all a smarty-art Negro can gather.

The video plays like a fucked up IKEA commercial that tells you where your furniture really comes from. Homeboy has visions of getting your love locked down, inspected, sold through the Middle Passage, inspected, sold to Captain Jackson and put to work in the Carolina tobacco fields.

Mind you–there ain’t nann notta African in this video. He caught a bunch of Lion King understudies on their lunch break and convinced them to act an ass on camera. These niggas is runnin around with fades and Invisalign. Closest thing you might got to an African is the one dude from Cleveland or some shit.

Some of these young ladies got perms and Yaki. See now, they was already Dark & Lovely before the conquistadors. They ain’t need Lark Vorhees or Stacey Dash on the side of a no-lye relaxer box to tell them so. There’s no Yaki in ancient African society. I don’t know if they was doin the 100% Human Hair thing or what, but I’m pretty sure there was no Kim’s Beauty Supply back then.

I know Kanye’s been waiting for his Spaceship for sometime. Is this where he wanted it to take him? If so, is Kanye aware that those Africans would probably exile his ass to the lion-infested plains for his incessant displays of bitchassery?

I’m surprised Ellen Degeneres let him drop graffiti-titty bitches at 10 am… Nevermind. No, I’m not.

How the only thing he got in his living area is a telescope? He spends all night looking at Uranus from atop his own special volcano on Sex Planet.

It’s gonna be okay, Kanyevel. We all long for that special someone’s black hole from time to time.

Ellen, I know you want to help. You’re a cool-ass broad. I fucks with you. Been fuckin with you since Open House, but please, I implore you–Stop telling this nigga he’s “brilliant.” He’ll never come down from this. “Different” and “brilliant” are not synonymous. This nigra need to know he wrong for sittin his Billy Ocean ass down in the corner with that Miami Vice suit on. Instead, Degeneres calls “Love Lockdown” brilliant, giving him full permission to go on another coke bender at the next awards show and telling us he’s the greatest soul singer of all time too.

No. Wait. Maybe Kanye’s onto something! I’m getting something! The drums! Our ancestors are speaking to me though the mangled Japanese drumkit! They’re saying… Ummm, sounds like… “The weed’s too strong.”

Hmm. I wonder what they mean by that.

Questions? Comments? Requests? Have you inspected your love’s gums yet? ron@ronmexicocity.com

No good will come of the unholy union that is “T-Wayne.” I can assure you.

Imagine you’re some young skripper, bartender or aspiring Superhead being wooed at 3:30AM by Teddy Ruxpin Pain with promises of being put into a mansion in his home state of Wis-Cain’t-Sing.

See… You can feel that hot-ass grill breath, can’t you?

[Note: I had a Teddy Ruxpin that broke. "Red & Yellow & Blue" sounds a lot like "Silver & Gold: Da Derrty Version" after Ted's been kicked around the project apartment for a bit. "You can make new Hennys for days and days when you mix them up in diff-er-ent ways..."]

Between Wayne being too cool to read and this “Wiscansin” shit, I think T-Wayne is going to influence the children to run away and join the damn minstrel show circus.

Oh, shit! That’s where I’ve seen this T-Pain nigga before he started “sangin’” through that plastic dick. He the damn rangmaster at Niggling Brothers Circus. [That'd be the most threatening minstrel show competitor to the Universoul Circus not named Flavor of Love.]

Damn, they got winged monkeys flying around and everything! T-Pain has regressed Negro kind back to the days of “The Wiz,” when we weren’t yet allowed to vote… for Shirley Chisolm. That’s not a place I’m trying to go back to–not for some skrippers. I don’t care how “fuego” they may be.

My main gremlin Lil’ Weeziana sounds like he just came out of appendectomy or some shit. For this, I’m well-pleased to finally have a visual for this song. I’m sure it’s a direct contrast to the near-comatose state Wayne must have been in during the recording process. He can’t fool me with all that dancing around and shit like he wasn’t halfway to ’98 B.G.-status in the booth spilling Tussin PM all over someone’s Crispy Asian Chicken carpet.

Sorry, B-Gizzle. The junk never leaves you alone. Neither do the haters.

For realsies, though. I didn’t understand a single word of Wayne’s verse. Don’t take my word for it, but he may have referenced his face tattoos and some Mexican lady cleaning “house sheets?” If he was pumping any of their usual Save-A-Ho propaganda in these trying financial times I’d like to remind the children that trickin is trickin–even if you got it. Don’t let the Lollipop King and the nigga who fell in love with a skripper tell you any different.

Questions? Comments? Requests? Still needing Consuela to change your house sheets? ron@ronmexicocity.com

P.S.: T-Pain in that top hat looks like he should be the icon for a “Monopoly”-esque ghetto board game called “Bad Credit.”