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Let me get this straight. I AM DIVA!

DIVA

Deee-Vahh! You go look in the dik-sho-narree  – das how you spell it right? – and you gonna see ma face and name next to it. Bebouncey Knows. You get that, Rhhiblana? Yo, you listening girl? Tryn’a steal ma groove and copy ma stylz. Eh-eh? Whadda? You know how hard I worked to get this far? You know The Physical Determination and Undeniable Self-belief it takes for a gurl to walk out da door looking lak she just jumped inta a pool full o’ glue and rolled around in taffetta? Yeah, TAH-FETT-TAH, cupcakes. Nice an’ crispy,  like a Chrismaz Craeckr.

You jus’ turn up and try an bust ma grooves, steal ma moves. So ya think ya can dance? Whaddeva! Ah seen you move, sweet pea. Lak an old broom stuck in mud. I gots news for ya. This is a BULLET-IN. You can’t dance!!! You can’t touch ma fiercness, OK? And back off em’ tights while yo at it. UNDAH-STOOD? The Tights are Mine. All mine. Go look in da deeek-sho-nearie and you gonna see mah face and name next to the word “tights” – Bebouncey Knows. I have exclusive Rights to Tights, OK? Don’ make me kiss ma teeth. You gonna make me whip off ma weave in a minute and get nastee witch ya. And girlfriend you don’t want dat to happen. Trus’ me. I am 10 Denier’s Child. This is ma birth right yo messin’ wit.

The tights are mine, all mine!! Mine, mine, minnnnnnnnnnnnnne!!!!!

All Dat Jazz

Rhhibanala: “Yeah, whatever, chill-ax, Bee. You so extra…”

This is so goooooooooood….

 

First saw this in bar in Paris. Near Palais Royal. A backstreet. One of the few places that you can smoke inside. An odd experience –  sipping German bier whilst puffing on a Marlboro Gold – made even more odd by the mute-button-on screening of La Shak doin’ her ting. Flesh coloured body stocking, inexplicably agile limbs, thrusting “lady garden”, a cage, the glitter-festooned innards of a nymphomaniac cow, nonsensical lyrics:-

…..Starting to feel just a little abused
Like a coffee machine in an office (aaa)…

…Nocturnal creatures are not so prudent,
The moon’s my teacher, and i’m her student…

Eh?

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A good manicurist is so hard to find these days

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This one’s for you Nomia, Tyra-nnical, Beounce’:

Listen.

Girls, all this talk about addiction and weaves in earlier posts [see Fierce! and Homecoming] got me thinking.

This has Got. To. Stop!!!

WTF. You’re all going bald! Are you blind? Who’s doing your hair? Sack them!

Jeeez, I can understand the appeal of silky, flowing locks garnered from the Indian Sub continent but this is crayzeeee! Look in the mirror, girls. No, it’s not a dark shadow you see lurking there. No, it’s not a frown ditch – you’ve probably maxed out on some botulin-induced frown intervention anyway. And it most definitely ain’t a trick of the light.

It’s your receding hairline, girls. And if you’re not careful you’re gonna end up with Weave Mullet Syndrome – and that isn’t a type of fish!

It’s WEAVE STUBBLE. This Must STOP. Do not pass go, go straight to Weave Jail for hairline abuse and get them taken out. It might not be too late. The campaign starts here – Follicular Respect: Free Your Weave [FRFYW]. Love your scalp, treasure your hairline. It wlll love you back. Hell, it might just grow back. Buy some scalp manure and stay away from sunlight till your frontal follicles begin to sprout forth.

But weave addiction is the most dangerous and evil of them all. The hardest to stop. I feel your pain girls. So if you really, really, really can’t quit then give your scalps some respite from time to time. They needs a vactaion too.

If all else fails, get a fringe. It’s all about damage control, I guess.

I love y’all but home truths, sweeties, home truths. This is comin’ straight from the heart. You’ll thank me for it one day.

OK she’s had a lot of stick in the past for looking a touch “hombre”, our Ciara but I have to give it to the girl. She is working it!

“I’ll show you I ain’t a FELLA, all you haters! Y’all betta watch and learn. OK I ain’t got no fancy Europienne designers makin’ me costumes like Bouncey’ has but I gots the styles! Yo, check this out. Don’t I look fierce in my FIERCE zipper catsuit thing? Don’t those boot/ leg-snatcher thingies show My Modest Potential off lak a hot dream on a sultry southern evening? Ok, I look a bit ridiculous sun-lounging in an abandoned truck tyre, try’n ma banks to look all hookerish… but hey I gots The Body, y’all. I IS FIERCENESS personifah’d! And My thigh’s are slender than your’s, Bouncey. And they ain’t encased in tights that Tina Turner threw out in 1975!!! You get me, girl!?! Yes, you, Bouncey. Wich yo weave and yo Armanis. Girl, you ain’t a GRANNY just yet! I may not have your budget but I ain’t gotch yo hips either, praise the lord!!! Halleujah!

And yo better watch yo back, Boounce’ cause I is comin atch ya.

And I can run faster than ya.

And what I don’t get my sister Manny J Blags will collect and dispose. Watch yo weave, girl. Diana Ross is missin’ one, you WEAVE GRABBER!  Give it back!! I ain’t playin’. Remember, I IS FIERCE!!!”

[Author’s Note: I warned you that this blog was going to be totally random. I’m only warming up…]

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