MN Manmacker's mansploitation
There oughta be a responsible adult whose job it is to protect those tweenage singers from having to sing such awful songs.
The music was teeny-bopper shit, real stomach-churning… Thumper ain’t gonna fixate on the music. It was bad, that’s all there is to say. Like girl-soldiers, it just felt wrong in every way, like somewhere, there oughta be a responsible adult whose job it is to protect those tweenage singers from having to sing such awful songs. But Thumper weren’t gonna fixate on the music.
Shit, Thumper’d rather listen to a hobo’s diarrhea.
Thumper walked in, pausing to overcome his revulsion at the dickless rock pooping its way outta the club speakers… Bud the club deejay was playing some rhythmless rap now, nigga belching out limp nonsense, the girl onstage trying bravely to dance to it. Shit, Thumper’d rather listen to a hobo’s diarrhea.
That’s proper music, nigga. If you ain’t never listen to Fatback, go put it in the internet now. Hope yo’ booty don’t got plans, cuz it’s go’n be shaking and baking!
They got deep on the convo then, and they went outside to the backyard to drink beer without the clamor of the buttnugget bullshit flowing from the speakers.
Then he brung her out to the car, passing through the living room and the speakers blaring out some spirit-sapping “rock”.
Thumper drove her home in silence.
He wanna put on some Fatback. That’s proper music, nigga. If you ain’t never listen to Fatback, go put it in the internet now. Hope yo’ booty don’t got plans, cuz it’s go’n be shaking and baking!
Going upstairs, he ain’t hafta listen to it. It was just a dull roar up here. Sounded better that way.
Thumper was not gonna fixate on the music. That was some notiony old nigga shit. He was better than that.
Vimukhti and Courtney disappeared off together in the sea of honkies dancing to some kinda nonsense slow-motion dance pop shit, Thumper got a feeling the singer was a nigga, no doubt with bullshit in his eyes, you know that! Got a beat like a dying turtle, Thumper wouldn’t never fuck to it.
Going upstairs, he ain’t hafta listen to it. It was just a dull roar up here. Sounded better that way.
Thumper was not gonna fixate on the music. That was some notiony old nigga shit. He was better than that.
You know what “death metal” sounds like? Thumper do. That’s what happens to white people when Thumper ain’t around to thump sense into ’em.
You know what “death metal” sounds like? Thumper do. That’s what happens to white people when Thumper ain’t around to thump sense into ’em.
It sounded like eternal loneliness, like the notion that hell is just the shadows the damned live in and from there they can see into heaven where souls eternally rejoice in God’s radiance. It was reggae that sounded like that concept.
Only difference between music genres now was the singer’s hat. It all sounds the same. If he wear a cowboy hat or a trucker hat, it’s country. If he wear a baseball cap backward, it’s hip hop. If he wear it cocked to the side, it’s R&B. If he wear any other kinda hat, it’s rock. If a female wear a cowboy hat or trucker hat, it’s country, but any other hat or no hat, it’s R&B. Unless she ugly, in which case it’s rock, regardless of the hat situation. If there ain’t no singer, it’s techno. All sounds the same, so if you can’t see the singer’s hat, you can’t know what genre it is.
That actually mighta been reggae. If the singer wore a red, green and black hat, it’s reggae. Don’t sound like reggae though. It sounded like eternal loneliness, like the notion that hell is just the shadows the damned live in and from there they can see into heaven where souls eternally rejoice in God’s radiance. It was reggae that sounded like that concept. Bob Marley be bugging.
All them partyers virtually shouting to be heard over the failed razzle and aborted dazzle of the warbly pop music, shit do it get Thumper’s dick soft!
The party was crowded, but the music was bad. Normal but bad. Music got awful while Thumper was in prison. He do try not to focus on it… Not just white people music neither, niggas be listening to some flat-ass mumble-rap bullshit. Thumper don’t judge.
Okay, Thumper do judge, but he don’t fixate on it.
Thumper usedta be cool. He spent lotta his cool years in prison. Now he was the old weirdo bumming around a house party, ain’t nobody talking to him cuz he was scary, twice the age of anybody here, looking like a cast-iron nigga with a foulness, all them partyers virtually shouting to be heard over the failed razzle and aborted dazzle of the warbly pop music, shit do it get Thumper’s dick soft, it weren’t even party music. Can’t dance to it! People forgot how to pick music for a party, damn!
But Thumper weren’t gonna fixate on that.
“If you a man, you gotta protect yaself. If you can’t, you either pay someone else to or you ain’t gonna be protected,” he said. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong wit’ payin’ for protection.”
Adam sat up. “I asked if guys did it willingly. If somebody’s making you pay protection money, that’s not willing,” he said.
Buck shrugged. “If you a man, you gotta protect yaself. If you can’t, you either pay someone else to or you ain’t gonna be protected,” he said. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong wit’ payin’ for protection.”
From Buck the Ex-Con
It looked like a Nickelodeon show had exploded, with perky young bodies and skinny arms everywhere, haircuts more complex than any man had a right to.
This college party had been a bunch of skinny bozos, he thought. It looked like a Nickelodeon show had exploded, with perky young bodies and skinny arms everywhere, haircuts more complex than any man had a right to. College boys, Avery thought, were pansies these days. What happened to the days when college boys lifted weights and grew their hair long? That was nice.
From Dubcon Alphas