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And hello. Over at, I wrote about that time I met Disappointment in a restaurant in DeeCee. I take my food very seriously, and I am still recovering from this travesty. It's a cold world.

In this age of foot-faced presidential swampdonkeys, culture vulturing ho-ass racial stowaways, and mediocrity-masking alternative facts, a number of things are inarguable:
  1. Shawn is the LaTavia of the Wayans clan.
  2. The rent is too damn high.
  3. While Magnolia Bakery’s cupcakes are wretched, gorgeous bite-sized tragedies, their banana pudding might could fix Ben Carson.
  4. Withholding gravy is a crime against humanity.
Argue with deez nuts.

Gravy—sauce in general, technically—is a gift from Almighty Saint Damita Jo Jackson, the First, and must be given abundantly. Always. Sure, a bombastic curry chicken situation can be delicious. But bathe that same chicken appendage in a majestic sauce situation, and it becomes life-changing. The right gravy could help En Vogue quit the silly shit, axe that rebound so and so lady, get it the fuck together, and continue being great together, rather than split into blessing-blocking bickering factions.

Which brings me to my latest dance with disappointment.

Read the rest over at Very Smart Brothas.

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