Here it goes, as promised.

Unfortunate that it took this obscure, undefined, “altercation,” to bring the best out of the Boy Boy Young Mess (who is actually 31). Much better than his Lil B-inspired “swag” raps about whatever unrealized fantasies he conjures up in his coke-fueled nights spent at the Double Tree in the chicken switch towns where promoters don’t know any better than to book him and his weed/blow carrying entourage.

Wow, I am a hater. Damn, my mom pictured so much more for me. My blow carrying entourage doesn’t even have shows or stay at classy Double Tree Inn’s in places like Lubbock, Texas. Feck.

Well, as long as Mess continues to be know as the “Boy Boy Young Mess,” I will continue to, respectfully of course, purchase his albums (at $10.99 mind you) with the implicit understanding that I can clown on his ass at will in my little known, alcohol fueled, tumblr rants. Only fair, right?

Right.