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Deuce Carter

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The Hard Life of a Sports Fan ... [28 Jan 2003|05:47pm]
While chillin with the fam at the spot in downtown Oakland on Sunday I witnessed something I never have. Around 7:30pm on Super Bowl Sunday, the never ending 'commitment to excellence' talk created by radioshows and Raiders fans; the mindless groups people dressed in silver in black and covered in team insignia inspired paint; and talk of the ending of the dreaded curse for teams this side of the bay all died down. In it's place were faces with smeared paint and red eyes, leaning on posts for balance as their mouths swung open. All heads who once shouted out that payback for all the wrong done to Oakland was about to be righted were stomped into submission by John Gruden and Warren Sapp.

The score was 48-21, sealed by two straight interceptions returned for touchdowns in the final minute on poor, injured duck balls flung right into the great wide open for the taking. The worst part about this defeat was that the game was much further apart than the score indicated, even if it was a 27 point mudhole planted right into the heart of the Raiders. No matter what Rich Gannon, Bill Callahan, Jerry Rice or Tim Brown tried, the insanity filled Buccaneers weren't having it. Their intensity the proof for such a claim.

In the third quarter, trailing 34-03, the Raiders attempted to mount a comeback with a blocked punt and two touchdown passes. But it was all to no avail. All three of the two-point conversions the Oakland faithful was screaming for fell short. Instead of bringing the score to a close 34-27, they still trailed by 13 (34-21), and another point was never added to that side of the scoreboard. Then, as the time fell away from the grips of hands wearing black goves with a metallic-silver tint, that cockey swagger displayed by every Oakland resident slowly turned into sighs and looks of dismay. Even my boy Po' was shocked, throwing his black into his pitcher of Bud midway through the fourth quarter.

Once the game ended things worsened. The interviews with a tongue wagging, 360-pound, word exaggerating defensive lineman named Warren Sapp, and John Gruden -- who's oft-grin stricken mug was now sportin' a smile -- slammed the proverbial nail through the heart of every single person with their hearts placed onto the shoulders of Sunday's losers. The Oakland fans may be used to heartbreak, but not of this type. Never, ever have I seen a grip of heads so inspired now left empty, soon to be filled with beers and percolating thoughts of what could have been.

Now when does baseball season begin?
3presence felt| even in my absence my presence is felt

Woo Hah, I Fell and Can't Get Up !!! [05 Jan 2003|10:23pm]
[ mood | amused ]

Sittin' 'round the Crib on my day off, I was flickin through the t.v. channels searchin for somethin to watch. Nothing else was interesting on any of the other stations so I ended up lookin at the boring ass, repetitive videos that all seem to resemble each other in both beats and visual formula. After 'bout fifteen minutes passed, the new Busta video came on. It was sad, to be honest as a mua'fucka. Don't you remember back in the day when Busta used to drop hot joints almost weekly? First there was "Woo Hah," then came "Dangerous," and "Put Yo' Hands Where My Eyes Can See," continuing with "Get Out," and the infamously ghetto ass video with the dork-ass lookin minature Busta, "Gimme Some More." Then after that, everything went wrong. "Fire" was a certified dud. Not even bein mezmerized by the booties was gonna make you think that joint was bangin'; likewise for that entire Anarchy LP as well. Almost every joint on that album emulated some other elementary, hood rat formula from his hit singles. The only probs were that none of them had all of the parts to equal the sum of the previous songs, in the process, leavin them sounding like mediocre tenth grade beats. As quickly as he came, ya' boy done fell the fuck off.

Then suddenly, a year and a half had passed, and the Dr. Dre laced "Break Yo' Neck," dropped and I coulda' swore that Busta was gon' be on a roll with that shit. The double time flow was pure lava, and the production was off the heezay. The second single, "Pass the Covosieur" and it's remix were both bangin' as well. Ask anyone at the time, Busta Rhymes couldn't had done no wrong. Now, that ain't the case. The "Make it Clap" video is cookie cutter crap, full of nothin but all the same bitches from the other rapper's videos. On top of that, after havin' all those album drop and go at least platinum or double ice, his new album went triple bronze, sellin something like 14 copies, and only to relatives. I ain't know what happened, but good ole' Bussa' Bus finally fell the fuck off. This time, it looks like for good to.

even in my absence my presence is felt

NBA: National Bullshit Association [28 Nov 2002|05:51am]
[ mood | energetic ]

Chillin at the spot, not tryin to holla at any shoties cause I got my girl on the arm now, I was sittin with Po', talkin bout the NBA. As always B be havin the weirdest of opinions- always jockin someone's strap as if fool was the cheerleader and the head he was supportin was team quarterback. I sat there, next to homie, drinkin a screwdriver, watchin the Lakers play Orlando on the big screen. Watchin Kobe and T-Mac go at it is pure heaven. They even guard each other. How much better can it get? Two of the top ten ballers in the NBA throwin down each other's mug; now that's some shit.

Now that Shaq's fat, yet talented ass, is back in the fold, you know how it goes: feed the big man down low, watch him mash on helpless bystanders' mugs; watch the ball bouncin' off they helpless grill. I swear, son could dunk on just bout anybody, even with a piece of KFC in one of his fat, grubby ass hands. I didn't care about that though, cause with Shaq, its always the same. Trust me, when he's playin there aint no guessin to the outcome no mo'. So, I wasn't waiting for the outcome. Braggin' rights ain't comin from that. Braggin' rights gonna be shouted by who drops a two quarters on the other's dome.

By the end of the night, goin back an forth, T-Mac, jacked stomach from the flu and all actually poored as just as many points as were plopped on his mug by I-ain't-got-no-mo'-shoe-contract-Kobe: 38 points. The endin was different, tho'. The Magic won the game. I know it ain't have to do with Grant-'my-bum-ass-ankle'-Hill. Instead, Mike Miller, who looks like a cross between a taller Eminem who embraced his dark hair instead of finding the nearest high-lighter, and that other white fool on every street corner in Ghettoville USA who always tryin' to act black and is accepted by the heads, yet always worried about droppin racially negative comments. Gon' ask how I came to that conclusion? Well, after son hits a three the night before, droppin three dimes and a penny on a hapless team, while Hill and Mac'donalds were out, Son kept pointin to his chest like he was eatin chitlin's and collard greens for Thanksgivin'. 'Member B, you ain't black. Don't fret.

After half a dozen gin and juice's was helpin my mind percolate and restin easily in my gully, Po' and I went bout our weekly NBA conversation as usual. Two of us always soundin' like women cause we can't agree, even if we know we wrong. One thing, I don't like about Po', aside from the fact that he can't admit when he wrong, is his thoughts always be empty, lackin substance. Sometimes I feel like I'm bickerin with a ten-year-old. Still though, he had some candid thoughts that I agreed with. As always, droppin a gem here and there.

- "Yo son. Don't Shaq remind you of a black Fred Flinstone? Always lookin cross eyed an shit. Stupid, but don't know it."

- "Is it just me, or is Kobe's head lopsided."

- "T-Mac got that lazy eye syndrome. B look like he channelin' Biggie from the grave."

- "Whats up with your boy Vince Carver? Cameras out catchin son runnin 'round, out dancin at Nelly concerts. Shit, his legs a bum. That ain't mean he's got to have bad taste. Best ask Nelly where all that pimp juice be at, cause V.C. fallin like the Nasdaq."

- "Dos, man, why ain't they playin that commercial for Kobe and Mickey D's, son? Kobe figure he get some street cred by droppin shit like that, and maryin a boricua mami? Yo, you heard those thugged-out tracks on that bootleg homey copped? I swear, G, no wonder they dropped him."

As always, I feel compelled to come right back at ya' boy, though. Cause shit talkin always be a two-way street.

- "Eh, yo, 'Po, why you always jockin those Sac-to Queens man? Seriously, I know they got game. But I ain't seen nobody ever defer clutch shots to anybody else like Webber. Son cursed. Remember back in Michigan? You ain't got no time outs, B ! He doin' it to himself though. All up in Tyra's shit, yet aint got the balls to take an important shot. Wipe my ass with you sixteen million a year, kid."

- "Man, 'Po, why you jockin Garnett? You wearin son's kicks. And 1? And 1 what? And one more year our team gonna get the boot in the ass in the first round? Oh, he still lookin like the Kid too, cause bein seven-foot-one ain't shit when you weighin a buck-seventy and some change."

- "How bout them 9ers, G? I told you Garcia was homo- ever heard son talk? -, and Owens was nothin but evaporated milk at crunch time. Hey, another thing, since Jerr... I mean, Jeff Garcia got straight problems, ain't you think Garisson Hearst sayin shit about the homosexual populace might be directed at a certain someone?"

- "Steve Nash may got as much game as Stevie Franchise, but at least Franchise aint got a mullet attached to his grill. That almost prohibits you from getting laid. Regardless of millions, B."

Words of wisdom right there. Some of the things 'Po be comin up with, just ain't right. Its like bein in grade school, and kids start cappin on yo' momma's fat ass cause they seen you rollin up with her in the ride earlier in the mornin'. Ain't nothin more demoralizing than that, son. After a few more instances, and the round-mound-of-blub, Charles Barkley's ass popped up on the screen, the highlights came. As usual, the trio of old folks brough up a few peeps from around the league. Something about A.I. raisin his drop dead field goal percentage. Seriously, he's Tupac with a jump shot. Got the heart of a thug. Doin' everything as expeditiously as possible- runnin into everyone, takin shots you take in fifth grade, breakin bones like he was porcelain. Next thing you know, son gonna start wavin' a gat around, screamin out obscenities. Oh wait. Son already did that shit. Well, my ass be out. It's Thanksgivin. Got to go to give thanks to the lord for havin' all this and a lovely woman by my side. One love, and peace.

even in my absence my presence is felt

Been A Long Time Comin' [24 Nov 2002|09:38pm]
[ mood | grateful ]

It's been minute since I last updated this. What's up in this piece? You ain't know? I was chillin with that shorty I mentioned in my last entry, in the days of way back. That asian shorty. Act like you know. Honey was bangin. One day, I'ma post her photos up on this, but 'til that day comes, keep salivatin' at how bangin she be.

A week or so ago, we caught up and decided to grub on some food at this nice chinese food place- food is bangin, by the way- and I ain't think nothin was finna to happen, but to my surprise honey was feelin the game, the smile, the clothes, my steeze, and all that, y'know? So, after a few dates and some good down time at her casa, doin' that thug lovin', we decided that we should make this more of a permanent thing. It's weird, I ain't used to these feelins. Usually, a brother ain't tryin to fall in love or nothin, but I'm fallin fast for this dime. She's got everything a fool could ever need. I ain't gonna front. Damn... Like I said, 'act like you know.' Cause in these days in time, it isn't easy to find a fine ass woman who's down with a playa. It's even more difficult for a honey to get all my attention too, but boo is doin her thing, while keepin me enticed up in that. I can't deny it, with her, I'm set.

1presence felt| even in my absence my presence is felt

Tryin to Get My Head Situated [07 Nov 2002|08:05am]
[ mood | curious ]

So I woke up this mornin, a yawn an yawnin. I carried my ass to the bathroom to brush my grill and finna to make my ass some grub food for breakfast. Before I did that though I checked my celly. I saw that son had some voices from somebody, somewhere, so I listened to the shit. Turns out a brotha had three. They were from three different shorties. Damn. I shoulda left the tones on so they woulda woke my lazy ass up, but na' I ain't do that, so here I am left with some voices on my celly.

First chick was Vero, a bangin ass mexican mami from over in San Jose. I remember chillin with girl at the spot where Chedda was spinnin his joints. 'Good gracious, ass was bodacious.' That it was. She was like 5'1, sportin this cute little Baby Phat get up that showed off the good if you na'mean. We exchanged numbas and I bought girl some screw drivers. We talked for a minute and I cut out the spot. Got a lil' peck on the cheek though. So shit seemed promisin for me. Well she called hittin me up to see if I was finna to roll to any clubs this weekend or goin to one of the spots that Chedda spins at every weekend. Girl is a straight dime. Bet her momma is even a nickle.

Second honey was this black dime goin by the name of Shantie. She a little thick, but she up to par na'mean. Girl rockin a little bit more of the thug tip if you know what I'm sayin. Lookin like she straight out the hood, sportin J's and some Ecko Red. It was all good though. We was conversatin at some joint my friend was doin for a friend since he owed a favor to son. She was about 5'7, full lips, bangin ass, with curves to boot. I tell you, I was bout to roll up in that. Shorty was feelin son that much. But I aint tryin to hit everything that movie. Y'know? I got to take care mines first. So I got anotha number and gave one too. She called to see if a brotha wanted to go see Brown Suga since she aint seen it yet. I don't know when I'm finna to be in her area yet (510). But we'll see. Damn though, all girls wanna check that flick though, cause I already seen it twice with some other honies.

Third shorty was Krystal. She was asian. Had that whole cute feelin to her ass. Girl was lookin adorable. Wearin this blue, and pink get-up that matched perfectly. My head was swoll if you get the shit. I mean baby was bangin, thats legit, na'mean. Nothin was really off an poppin, but we reluctanty exchanged digits. Surprisingly girl called up wantin to chill for some food. I'm up with that. Her, a brother is definitely gonna call.

Somewhere in the middle of this though, a brother found himself in a dilemma. Somewhere in between tyin my tie or hoppin in the Platinum Silver 280, I started thinkin 'bout Carmen. I mean thas my girl. Thats my road dog, na'mean. She always been there for a brother. No matter what girl always had a brother's back. She may be in the southern part of Cali, but she still my boo. I got to get mines though even if we on hiatus. Girl been the only one to really get my heart. Only one to make a fool love.

Women be cause my mind to percolate, thinkin bout crazy shit, wonderin what the fuck a fool gon' do. I ain't know. But I figure I'll know soon enough. But my ass best be out to this 9 to 5 life since I got to get that money. Peace. One love.

1presence felt| even in my absence my presence is felt

Whats up in this piece ? [04 Nov 2002|05:04pm]
[ mood | content ]

Yo whats poppin in this piece? Whoever you be, you need to know who I be. I'm Mr. Carter. Better know to the heads round the hood as Deuce. Yes fool, that is my real name. No need to front, my ma duked named me after the numba two. Don't trip though, cause a fool like me always numba one if you na'mean. Anyways, I'ma update this shit on the regular. This basically just gonna chronical son's life and what's on his mind, formulatin' and percolatin' know what I'm sayin? I'm out. Peace.

1presence felt| even in my absence my presence is felt

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