ATLANTA, GA— This past Tuesday, after hearing that rapper Gucci Mane had been kidnapped—over contract disputes—by rapper Pooh Shiesty, a fated plumber from Atlanta named “Marlo” set out on a decades-spanning, generation-defining quest across the Mushroom Kingdom of Atlanta to rescue his beloved Gucci Mane.

Details from the story are still developing, but the plumber is reported to have brought along his brother Lou, pitbull Yoshi, and no blick.

Regarding the controversial decision to run down on Pooh Shiesty with no strap, Marlo allegedly believes, per Instagram Stories, that the power of heart, determination, and friendship will be “…more than enough to defeat [Shiesty] and get [Mane] back.”

Stupid ass nigga. Hasn’t he ever heard a Pooh Shiesty song? Them niggas got so many fucking guns. God bless his journey, though. Apparently he’s on mad mushrooms, too.

When I was fifteen-years old, I was turning That Corner. By forces beyond me, I was informed that it was here I was standing—on that canonical intersection which would ultimately decide the question which haunts every Black boy hitherto: Will he live, or will he die?

And by forces beyond me, I was saved. That is the only way Black boys can hope to leave the Corner with hope for a future, after all. If not for some salvation divine, they end up yet another image in a long, long lineage of Black male visual death. Visual death meaning: dead or in jail, wherein you are no longer, visually, in or of this world. Ringing, forever.

Either way, at some point between the ages of fourteen through sixteen, you learn, through your father, his brothers, his friends, that you are the closest—probability-wise—you’ve ever been, and, theoretically, ever will be, to becoming a monster. Heavy shit.

I was saved, in some part, of course, by my support system. But the power of art in providing me alternative visions of what realities were possible cannot go understated.

It was at fifteen—grounded and in the throes of alienation—that I’d join a digital, but strangely ethereal, community of anon music-lovers hobnobbing around the latest going-ons and stylings of an unofficial collective connected loosely by an invisible string of swag, Culture, social consciousness, and bars. Their web spanned a wide variety of personalities, cities, and independent rap labels—10k Global, Tan Cressida Records, and Backwoodz Studioz were/are central. And we kept up, my anons and me.

We thumbed album credits, and began to track the works of producers and DJs like THERAVADA, TAKA, and Black Noi$e. To keep up with the lyricism and messaging of certain songs, Black leftist literature, like Black Marxism or Golden Gulag, suddenly became interesting. When Billy Woods made reference to them in his 2022 Aethiopes, we watched Kongi’s Harvest, and surveyed the biography of Mengistu Haile Mariam. And I stumbled over when, after perusing through the biographies of rappers Earl Sweatshirt and MIKE, I was knocked over by the facts of their early life. They too, like me, grew up Black boys—meaning they, too, had to face turning their own Corners.

Both figuratively and literally—they’re the heads of Tan Cressida and 10k Global, respectively—Earl and MIKE always stood out as leaders of the pack. Outside of official rank, they practically pioneered both the sound and swag of their scene. It was Earl, with seminal group Odd Future, who helped to set the example for what the next generation of hip-hop could even look like and sound like. And it was MIKE, building off the work of Sweatshirt, with the collective Slums, who laid down the foundations for a sound that still defines a large subsection of the underground. When, in our conversation, the two refer to each other as “secret leaders,” the title feels more than apt.

For me, they served as de facto Black subjectivity pushers. Key to the crises of the Corner is a straddling between a perceived binary of Black masculinity. That is, on one hand, the image of your father, his brothers, and his friends, and, on the other, the opposite extreme. The lunch table anime niggas, the nerd niggas, the “lame” niggas, the ones who could not fit into the image of the Other. Some were eventually able to find their way somewhere along the spectrum—late middle-school and high school gave way to the stoner archetype, for example—but I struggled in finding my place. Searching for a reconciliation between the two possibilities for Black male being proved taxing on me—emotionally, physically, and spiritually. I appeared doomed.

But engaging with Earl Sweatshirt and MIKE’s work was one of the first times I remember having seen anyone, with true swag and flair, straddle the two poles. Whereas, in the past, it seemed as though the two poles resented each other, Sweatshirt and MIKE bought them into the blissful balance I had been searching for. And looked and sounded cool while doing it.

We speak at once, for example, about Katt Williams and Detroiters. Dave Chappelle’s Block Party and the films of Ari Aster. The craft of rapping and X-Men. None of this is to say that they’re the first to have the tastes and interests they do—now that I’m a bit older, I realize that this blend is actually key to hip-hop history; see the Wu Tang Clan, for example—but the specific way they embrace them was my first time, as a Black boy in 2022, that I had encountered that possibility. The nonchalance and effortlessness with which they absorb the things they find cool is as if to say, “This can all be Black.” When Sweatshirt and MIKE’s gaze fixes on an object, it’s immediately steeped in the full cultural richness of Blackness. Tim Robinson is afforded the same reverence my uncle may afford to Mike Epps, and Mike Epps is afforded the same reverence my friend may afford to Tim Robinson.

This is a part of how they responded to their own Corners—at sixteen, Sweatshirt was sent away to a retreat school for at-risk boys in Samoa, his mother sensing the point he was at in his journey. And MIKE started rapping, in the first place, as a way to express the rage that filled him as a fourteen-year old boy growing up Black. In many ways, they learned to expand past the conventional possibilities for Black male subjectivity because they had to. And through them learning how to survive their own Corners, I survived my own.

It’s this mode—one of casual exploding of Black subjectivity and cultural conventions—that I, delightfully, find the two in, when they speak with me for Lil’ Mama. Over the course of our conversation, we contemplate Black utopias and white extinction, the bars of Kirk Franklin, forging a life and career as an artist, and, of course, among many other things, Black comedy and culture.

This interview has been edited and condensed for length and clarity.

Destruction and rebirth seem to be a large theme on this new project. The image of Pompeii, paired with the word “utility”, continues a through-line in both of yours’ works. That is, seeing clearly and vividly the realities of a capitalist, post-colonialist, colonialist, fascist, white supremacist, racist, cooked ass, fried ass society. But then understanding that because we face this reality, there is equally an urgent, strong, and vivid need for imagination, hope, growth, etc. In honor of Black Future Month ending recently, what are y’all’s most utopian, idealist, romantic visions of a Black Utopia?

MIKE: Um, Black Utopia? Alright, hear me out. Even if this sound corny, y’all just hear me out. We definitely gonna have a woman leader, off-rip. We gonna change the art style. No more abstract art. Like, abstract art is gonna be out the window. No more like… you know when niggas be like, “This is just an expression…” I don’t know how to explain it. Niggas be like, “I just expressed this.” Like, nah.

Earl Sweatshirt: We detonating the Rothko chapel.

M: I’m not gonna lie. Mad shit getting blown up and redesigned on some Japan shit. ‘Cause that’s the only way that this shit could go forward. We need to low-key break down the empire.

E.S.: The idea of responsibility to my race is frying my ability… Because the things that are in my head sound like a five-year old. I thought about a Brontosaurus right now, nigga.

M: It’s gonna be too personalized. That’s why they say the Black man, like, we don’t got it low-key…

E.S.: Bro, I was about to say some super, like, even-keeled African ass shit…

M: …Niggas like: "All the women: bikinis. Bikinis only.”

E.S.: I was about to say some shit about, like, living? What the fuck? Bro, you know that picture that be saying, “This how 454 music sound.” With the dolphins and shit? Maybe that?

Unfettered by any perceived duties to the Black race, what’s your personal utopia?

E.S.: For me?

Yeah.

E.S.: For me, Thebe? This doesn’t impose on anyone’s real reality?

Yeah.

E.S.: This is just mine? This is not for my people?

Don’t worry about your people. Be selfish with it.

E.S.: I’m on a farm with it. So much Za. So much fruits and veggies.

M: It’s, like, a part of the government for there to be unlimited Za.

E.S.: Unlimited. Like, it has to be. It’s not like you’re gonna die if you don’t produce it but it’s like, bruh, you gotta have some Za.

M: Yeah, there’s like government Za treasury type shit. You can spend your Za or you can smoke it, low-key.

E.S.: It’s whatever you wanna do. Maybe, like, a perfect technological and natural balance. You know what I mean? Like a good usage of tech to make life easier, where it can be.

M: Yeah, some Wakanda shit.

E.S.: You know what I mean? Healthy wife, healthy babies.

Are you getting rid of anybody? Do white people exist in your utopia?

E.S.: I wasn’t even thinking about they ass. But I wasn’t even thinking about that many people anyways. That’s what I’m saying.

M: Oooh, my boy hitting the Thanos.

E.S.: Bro, I’m telling you. I’m on that farm. I don’t even know what’s going on. Maybe there’s a brontosaurus. Bruh, I don’t know. White people just wouldn’t be so needy.

M: Yeah.

E.S.: Maybe they would be there. And they could like come and go and shit. And trade. And fucking do whatever. But just not so crazily, bro. Maybe you make, like, the climate in Central Asia and, like, the U.K. better.

M: The thing is: if you take away white people do some of the homies still exist? Like, even, the mixed homies low-key.

E.S.: Is it like what happens when you kill all the mosquitoes? Like, does it tear apart an ecosystem? You know what they be saying? Niggas be like, “Yo, why haven’t we just eliminated all the mosquitoes?” ‘Cause then, you know, frogs can’t eat.

M: The world is over.

E.S.: The world is over.

M: I’m crying.

E.S.: I mean you just gotta be like, “Stop it, mosquitoes!”

M: Just trap one of them shits.

E.S.: Yeah. Yo! We gotta get a citronella candle.

M: I’m fucking dead. It’s a big ass one. Like that shit is just burning in the middle of the land.

What’s been making y’all laugh recently?

E.S.: The new Katt Williams is really good. Like, he became immediately self aware of what he did his last press run with the Shay Shay shit. And he’s kind of making fun of himself being the secret keeper. So it’s, like, a less scary vibe than the last… Like the last Katt Williams press run was pre-freakoff. It was pre-the Diddy trial.

M: Yeah, he was one of the first to really put that out there. He wanted that shit out, low-key.

Yeah, it was getting scary. I think the last special was just, like, mad conspiracy theories?

E.S.: Bro, it was called Woke Foke. And he had the chain where it said “woke” across the middle, and the “foke”. With the KE. And I still don’t know what the hell that mean, bro.

I’ve rewatched Detroiters a lot. The episode with Key? From Key and Peele? That shit has literally one of the funniest comedic performances of the past ten years… I keep watching Southside, too.

M: I’m really super on some Instagram Reels shit. It’s this dude from London named @demztvofficial. And he always do these pranks where he scare, like, older African people. There’s one where they pull up to a hair salon. One of the dudes come first and he’s like, “Yo, I’m tryna get braids.” And then the other dude come up to his homie and he’s like, “Yo, you keep talking to my girl. I already told you about that.” And then he pulls out some red shit. And then he’s like, “Look, look, look.” And then he’s like, “Sleep.” And bro just falls on the floor. And all the aunties start tweaking the fuck out. That shit, I’m not gonna lie, is, like, the funniest shit to me. Like, scaring African people with fake witchcraft.

E.S.: Bro, some of them niggas be defeating that nigga, though. Like, there’s some niggas that he runs up on that’s been waiting. It might seem like a sidebar, but, times, I feel like, are so crazy, that comedy as an institution, at least the way that I knew it growing up with, like, all the movies and shit… Like comedy movies kind of suck and don’t exist now. I feel like comedy is in, like, horror movies now. Were we talking about this the other day?

M: Maybe.

E.S.: Like how horror movies, just by nature, are, like, campy and bad. Just as an institution. And how it’s kind of set the stage for it to flourish now. Because it’s existed as, like, a cult thing. That you appreciate kind of to the side. But now I feel like the horror movies are, like, comedies. Like, all the really good ones.

M: Yeah. ‘Cause I feel like they know that people fuck with the corniness of it so they’re like alright…

E.S.: So it’s like self-aware. Like all of the Ari Aster movies are low-key comedies. Fucking Weapons…like that director, I feel like all of those movies are comedy. Like fucking Barbarian and shit.

What’s y'all's relationship to funny stuff? As musicians working in a different craft and industry, how separable or inseparable do you feel the two art-forms are, music and comedy?

E.S.: Nah, bro, come on. You seen Block Party? Bro that shit is motherfucking like this. The best of both things are good at the other thing, and it’s low-key sometimes super cringy. You gotta show restraint and not fully do the other thing.

M: Yeah, I feel like, even in general, just, like, in life, but I guess we are talking about this connection with music. But, like, with the homies, like, I feel like even they know that, like, my favorite thing to do low-key is like…

E.S.: Is laugh?

M: Yeah. (laughs)

E.S.: Bro, this nigga MIKE literally just laughs.

M: Honestly, like, the energy, or whatever the happiness is you get from that shit, I think is expressed in music where, like, niggas could talk about, like, deep shit, but then niggas could also be weak at it because it’s like, you know where niggas is coming at it from. And those be the best bars. When you can hear, “This is a silly ass nigga, bro.”

E.S.: I think they’re both things that are based on timing. Like overly. So that’s why the people that are really good at either one, are gonna be good at the other thing.

M: Yeah, and I feel like it’s the juxtaposition I love. Bro, I’m a big fan of Thebe—hearing a silly nigga be serious. I think that even the homies who fuck with my music, fuck with that a lot, too. Like, hearing someone you usually be with, and it be silly as fuck, be serious in music. Then it’s a little bit funny, because you know that this person is like… it just creates a world of character.

E.S.: Yeah, I feel like it also lets niggas know who they’re really dealing with. Like the last Deon Cole full-length special he dropped, he, like, flawlessly just gets through an hour of traditionally Deon Cole material, and then he, like, literally, you can see it, like the control he has of his face. Like, the performance ends and he’s like, “Yo, yall, serious note. My fucking mom just died.” Then, like, you can see, like, who he is. And I think that’s the thing that MIKE is talking about.

When you see that someone’s in that much control of themselves. Like, making the decision to be funny, or make people laugh while they could be going through whatever. I think those people are like…low-key scary.

That reminds me of the special Richard Pryor put out right after he set himself on fire.

E.S.: You remember the last joke? It was like, “Y’all ain’t shit. I seen what y’all was saying.” Then he pulled out some matches, and he strikes one. And he’s like, “Yall said, ‘Look, it’s Richard Pryor running down the street.’”

What did you grow up finding funny? Where would you say you learned how to be funny?

E.S.: Well, everyone in my family is funny. I actually realized that. Like my mom and my pops were super on that. And then my mom really put me on to stand-up dumb early… it’s been super important. That’s, like, mainly why I fucked with school. I’d have an audience to get these jokes off. And then I was African too, bro, in the late 90s. Going to elementary school and shit. Niggas was frying my fucking life. I had to get funny.

M: I’d say a lot of my humor comes from family as well. My dad is very prank-based. Like, he’s like, “Let’s fuck around, everybody,” so I’m that type. Like my favorite type of joke is just, like, a random lie, low-key. And then just see if niggas believe me. And then I be like, “Nah, I’m just playing.”

Who are some of y’all’s favorite funny people? Earl, I know you’re a big Mike Epps fan.

E.S.: Oh, for sure. For sure. Everyone that knows anything knows that Mike Epps is just funny. Like it’s not even…you don’t have to intellectualize it. The nigga is like, literally one of the funniest niggas ever. That nigga, for sure. Him and, like, Chappelle for sure, growing up. Niggas for sure taught me how to, like, talk. I think that little kid @naznotfunny is funny. Have you seen that kid?

M: He’s hilarious, yeah.

E.S.: That nigga is really funny.

M: That’s the Senegalese kid. He’s funny as shit.

E.S.: He’s like really actually funny, like not just some internet…

M: Yeah. Bruh, I feel like I really grew up in the age of Twitter comedians and, like, Instagram comedians.

E.S.: Bro, I live with a really funny person [Aida Osman]. It’s not for the faint of heart, I’m not gonna lie to you, bruh. This shit is like highest stake hijinks all day. I actually had to learn how to keep up with a super unserious person.

MIKE, who are some of your favorite Twitter comedians? Like UnkleDell and that ilk?

E.S.: UnkleDell is funny.

M: I’m not gonna lie… my shit is a little bit more niche. I’m not gonna lie. I got some niche pulls. The one homie, who also rap, the homie Ant from Detroit…

E.S.: I was about to say, nigga! I was about to say the same shit! Ay, that nigga is not a comedian. That nigga is unwell!

M: Yo, I’m telling you, some of the shit he be saying I be like bro…

E.S.: Nah, bro, you telling a nigga to just look at the crazy homie’s diary, bro, it’s not even…

M: …But he gotta know that he’s saying shit that niggas have never, ever in life said before, like…

E.S.: Here, lemme…lemme pull ‘cuz a couple. Because it’s every day, too. It’s every day.

M: That nigga is actually hilarious.

E.S.: “Grampa dont kno how To work amazon fr. Neva have". “I need To Take a Trip somewhere but I Got like 5 ppl To shoot in 6 states”. “You Cant Tell me I Cant Get new enamel nigga THUG LIFE. “I aint been on a pill all month yal irritating me”.

M: The shit that be killing me is who is he talking to? Who is his intended audience?

E.S.: Bro, he’s literally…I can’t explain this. He’s somehow, like, if the spirit of a rich housewife inhabited the body of a gangbanger.

M: I’m fucking crying.

E.S.: He’s so… he’s like fancy. Bro, this nigga said, “I left The whole pot of pasta out Im so emotional Cuz WHY CANT NOTHING GO MY WAY! OH!!!”

M: Yeah, he’s goated, bro. I’m not gonna lie.

He’s a rapper too?

M: Yeah, and he be rapping his ass off. Like, that shit crazy.

E.S.: Obviously. One of the best rappers… ever. That nigga said, “You can keep the change, don’t tip on me/ I get to acting strange like Memphis Bleek.”

Who are y’all listening to right now?

E.S.: That’s one of the guys right there.

M: Yeah.

E.S.: The homie Rockitneedspace. Cletus Strap. I was listening to Cavalier and Quelle Chris a bunch yesterday. That new shit they dropped with Navy Blue is so good. Bro, you been listening to HappyDranker?

M: He’s tough. I fuck with him. I heard the shit he got with—

E.S.: With EvilGiane?

M: Yeah, that shit is tough. That shit is hard. Sideshow just dropped his shit, I been bumping that.

E.S.: Oh, yes. Sideshow’s shit. Bro just dropped a four-disk album, nigga.

M: It be funny, ‘cause the homies dropping so much music that majority of the time, low-key, I just end up listening to all the homies’ shit.

E.S.: Literally.

M: It be feeling like I’m so plugged in, but that shit literally be all I listen to, low-key.

E.S.: Literally. And I feel like there’s so much range. There’s so many people, and there’s so much range in them. And then you go around, too, and motherfuckers listening to the same shit.

M: Nah, literally. It’s too much music within the group.

E.S.: I’ve been listening to mad mid-tempo… like ‘90s South African house music slowed down.

M: Hard.

I was going to ask how do y’all find new artists or stay tapped in, but I guess it’s because you’re kind of all in community with each other?

E.S.: Yeah, everybody just be playing shit for each other, I ain’t gon’ lie.

M: Yeah, and then sometimes live shows. Like the other day—I been fucking with mark william lewis—but I tapped in with dexter in the newsagent, like sick artists from London and shit… but there’s just always these intertwined things going on…

E.S.: Yeah, like, we’re definitely not isolated at all. It’s, like, huge, huge community.

Both of you, in your careers, seem very committed to building spaces outside of the industry dedicated to a healthier creative ecosystem and ethic. I’m thinking about 10k, I’m thinking about Tan Cressida. How do y’all go about dealing with trying to strike that balance, of living a life dedicated to the arts, and good morals, and also, but also reckoning with a life and occupation seemingly so dependent sometimes on industry and capital?

M: I feel like, at least, for me, I always think it starts with sacrifice. And knowing that with sacrifice comes lessons. Like, when I think about all the sacrifices that I’ve done, or that all the homies have done, it always is, like, giving back. I think that’s, like, the reputation for everybody. Just like, “What are you sacrificing?” I just always go back to sacrifice. I might go on tour. It really, like, money-wise, might make sense for there to only be, like, two hotel rooms. But then, I’m, like, yo, there’s a homie there that besides the music shit, we just need to be there based off the energy and group morale of everything. So, it’s like, even though we might not see as much bread back, fuck it, let’s get the extra room just because what will come out of this will be way more than whatever amount of money we paid for the extra room.

E.S.: I agree 100%. Because what came to mind when you asked the question is that it’s not for the faint of heart. And I think that MIKE just filled out exactly why. Because of the sacrifices that it takes. I think the era that we in now, people hear that and get real scared. And it’s really not that. It’s just simpler shit. I think it’s really, like, time and space. Greatly. And then, like bro said, when you do it with faith, when you sacrifice…when you sacrifice your time to this thing, to your craft, like, it can only come back to you. I be thinking about that shit with, like, weed, bro. Like, if you made weed a part of your body’s ecosystem and your brain’s ecosystem… I was thinking about times when niggas didn’t have…you know what I mean?

M: Bro. Come on, bro.

E.S.: When niggas didn’t have money to, like, maybe eat? You know what I mean? Or you’re like, damn, let me piece up on this weed, put our head in a space, and then maybe… with faith, though! With faith that this is gonna goddamn…

M: Do some shit! No cap, bro.

E.S.: And then you might record something. You know what I mean?

M: That shit is true, bro. It’s even so tribal that like… niggas looking for tobacco, niggas looking for the pack. Like, we all got these different pieces of whatever. And so we got to lock in right now, and, like, share this between us. Which is the thing of sacrifice… immediate sacrifice. Like, I’m about to sacrifice my own tobacco that I could go smoke a cigarette with, but I’m like, nah, I’ma bring this to the spliff. And now we about to all put our shit together and create a machine that we could all low-key participate in. I think it’s a great analogy for what we got going on.

E.S.: But then the other side, too, of what we got going on is… I feel like sacrifice means essentially just letting go. Of like whatever it is. You might sacrifice your space so that someone can have space within it, but sometimes you might have to take up that space for yourself. It’s a yin-yang situation. You created the space for people that can handle this shit. That’s deciding on their own volition that they can handle this shit and that they want it. ‘Cause it’s just not for the faint of heart. Like, depending on what you want… people gotta be honest about the fact that niggas want attention, bruh. Niggas wanna be seen. Niggas wanna be heard. And then they want that so bad, and then it comes, and then they’re like, really stressed out. ‘Cause that’s coming back to them, and people are like, “Yo, I see you.” And you’re like, “What the fuck? I didn’t see you.” You might get mad at God for giving you what you fucking asked for.

M: Yeah, it’s true. I feel like after you go through that shit, then you realize that the form of sacrifice is very personal. It’s almost like not littering. Like, we shouldn’t litter because not only would it make the world a bad place for us, but it would make the world a bad place for everybody else. The reason why I’m not littering—and I do litter every now and then because I’m not the perfect human, but. The reason why I wouldn’t do it is because I wouldn’t want the people that I love to be in a fucked-up world, you know what I mean? And I feel like once you realize that, like, the responsibility moreso than putting yourself on, is to teach everybody to put themselves on…people have to realize that for themselves. You have to ask for things and, like, see if that’s what you really want.

E.S.: I would say the other thing, too, is, we’re a type of person. Like, I feel like with the Internet, it’s widening the potentialities in people’s minds for like, what they can get into. Which may be true, but there are certain things that I think predispose you to different types of careers and calling and shit that you’re into and shit.

M: I feel like you just gotta pour back into the good things. Even when it feels a little bit corny. Like, if you know it was good, pour back into it for the better of the world… I feel like that’s sometimes how I be looking at it. I was talking to the homie about this the other da. I still am the hugest fan of Thebe’s music—my brother. But, like, being a young kid who was like, “I don’t even know if I’m really fully dedicated to music and the idea that this could really work.” And realizing that, like as soon as I decided to truly like rap music, or as soon as I decided to like Thebe’s music, I already kind of put myself as a part of, like, this world. Which is why I be trying to tell people, you don’t have to be a rapper. You don’t have to be a producer. Like, the ecosystem is so huge. There’s so many different roles and shit for you to do. I think I was talking to my girl about this. I was like, bro, there’s so many different layers of New York City that we’re not exposed to because this isn’t the, like, lineage that we’re from, you know what I mean?

Like, if we was from a different lineage of different things then maybe we’d be in the building across the street. There’s a reason why we see things how see them. Why there’s this particular kind of person that comes to a certain type of show, or a particular kind of person that does this and does that. Once you take yourself out of the equation, and you’re able to look at the full thing on its own, you can really just have a deeper understanding and deeper appreciation that, like… the system that’s gonna work is gonna happen regardless, whether you’re a part of it or not. So, like, why not just try and make this thing, like, a better place? Me and Thebe knew each other for a second, but when we went on tour together, that shit really put me on, low-key, on like how to be… it’s like you a secret leader. The reason why you're a secret leader is ‘cause you tryna show everybody else that, like, you’re leading your own ship and, like, we could all lead our ships in the same direction.

E.S.: That’s the whole thing, bro. It’s, like, I have no desire to be at the head of anything. Like, how much shit is, like, it goes to the council? It’s a roundtable situation. But, bro, that tour, too. That’s when I feel like the culture of not being weird really got… Of like, “Hey, we’re super-fans of each other’s music.” Like, we enjoy spending time with each other, which is just super-duper not the case with touring outside of this ecosystem right here.

M: Literally. It made me realize, bro, that we’re gonna be seeing each other for so long. Like, you can’t have pseudo-relationships with people, because you are a part of this lineage. You can’t pretend like you’re not, you know what I mean? So get ready to be with these people, low-key, for a long time. Because, like…

E.S.: Like this is it! This is your kids’ uncles and shit.

Art does have that kind of transportive energy. Where it’s like if you put this vibration out into the universe, whoever’s on the same vibration is going to find you eventually.

M: Yeah.

E.S.: 100%, it’s a radio transmission.

That’s why I fuck with all the disses y’all be doing towards LinkedIn. Because artists don’t respond to networking. They respond to other art.

M: Yeah, that’s true. That’s true.

E.S.: Word. Yo, you’re so right, bro. Like you’re never at a thing like, “Oh!” Like, a thing that was built for artists mingling, you’re never at a thing like that, like, “Yo, super glad we met. Let’s fucking link up.”

What are the most important things you feel it is for a rapper to have, on a craft level?

E.S.: You gotta have swag, bro. You gotta have a lotta swag, bro. It’s hip-hop, remember that. If the hop ain’t hip, what the fuck is that?

M: (laughs) It’s just a hop.

E.S.: It’s just a hop. Niggas just jumping.

M: I think the craft to know how to rap. Just don’t be bullshitting. That’s the main thing. Just don’t be bullshitting.

E.S.: And you gotta do stuff in real life. You can’t do stuff so that you rap. You gotta be somebody that do stuff, and then that gotta lead you to be like, “Yo, what the fuck? I need to tell people about this.”

M: Yeah, that’s the main shit, I’m not gonna lie. And then I feel like the skill come later. You just gotta be like.. that person, low-key … You low-key gotta go against the grain. Like, your family gotta be low-key against you for a little sec. It gotta be that typa shit that really drive you to rap.

E.S.: On God. You gotta be like, damn. I’m the black sheep. It’s like the X-Men!

You gotta be chosen.

E.S.: And then Professor Xaiver niggas be like, “Yo, come on.”

M: (laughs) Yo, for real! Niggas save you from yo’ situation.

This is the rapid-fire round. You can only answer in three sentences or less. Earl, you have a lyric that reads, “Too black for the white kids, and too white for the blacks”. What feelings come up, for you, when you think about that contribution to the zeitgeist?

E.S.: Uhh. I know what I was trying to say. It was corny. I feel a little bit embarrassed. But I fuck with ‘cuz. Like, I feel you, little nigga.

MIKE, you used to listen to King Krule in pre-gentrification Bushwick. Did you ever relate to the lyric, “Too black for the white kids, and too white for the blacks”?

M: Yo, we was all young. He was young when he said it. I was young when I heard it.

E.S.: Bro, if you was older, you would’ve been feeling the fuck out of that shit. If you was born earlier, bro, I’m telling you. You would’ve been like, “This is my nigga right here.”

What are y’all’s thoughts on white fans?

M: Can’t live with ‘em, can’t live without ‘em.

E.S.: Salute, man. We all out here. Trying to figure it out. Word to.

In 2024, Kamala Harris did something unprecedented in having rappers performing at her campaign events. Living or dead, what president’s campaign trail, if you had to, would you perform on?

M: Okay, it’s about to sound crazy at first. I would perform at Ronald Reagan shit, and then during my performance, expose the war on drugs.

E.S.: In-depth. PowerPoint presentation. Get the laser pointer.

M: (laughs) I’ma be like, “Alright, yall. This our last song, but I just got one more thing to say.”

That’s probably the best answer you could give.

E.S.: Nah, yeah. He fucking went crazy with that shit. Let’s see. There’s a nigga with a name on him. Uh, Rutherford B. Hayes.

Just off the strength of—

E.S.: Just off the name.

Got you.

E.S.: I’ll hop in the time machine, and I’ll just load that up with everything that I would need. To, like, make such a fucking entrance. You know what I’m saying? Like, I’m touching back in that bitch trippin’, on everything. I’m bringing out all types of tech, all types of Za, all types of sticks.

M: I’m crying. USB with, like, the craziest music on it?

E.S.: Ever, ever. I’m bringing out mixers, bro. And a sound system, bro. We taking over, period. Period. I’m finna link up with my great-great grandpa and them. And hopefully the genes don’t get weird because of the time thing.

M: Bro, that would be the scariest shit if that happened right now. Like, a nigga came from the future and just was off-rip calling the shots.

E.S.: ‘Cause if he hop out with new tech, what you gonna do, man? That nigga’s up. As far as you’re concerned, it’s witchcraft. You can’t fuck with him.

RATE THESE BARS -

Earl Sweatshirt, 5/10:
That nigga said, “Ripping on any beat/ that’s an adaption.” And I don’t think that I like that at all. Off the way that that bar made me feel inside of myself, I was gonna give it a zero. But then I thought about the effort.

MIKE, 7.5 /10:
If that came from the right person, niggas would’ve said that was bars, bro. I just think that Charlemagne ruined his life. Like the timing of a nigga trying that hard to rap, and then saying, “That ain’t it.” There’s no beating that.

E.S.: Yeah, it’s like, “This nigga eating beans.”

Earl Sweatshirt, 10/10:
tk Yeah, so that’s a ten out of ten, brother. What’s my nigga name? Jitus? Goat. The other one? Inhalin’ it?

MIKE, 10/10:
I actually fuck with this nigga. He got a ten from me.

Earl Sweatshirt, 10/10:
Yeah, that’s ten. He on that cliff, fool. He out there. He all the way out there. I feel like that went everywhere. He got off.

MIKE, 10/10:
I’m not gonna lie, I gotta give my guy a ten. That was good. That was crazy. That was real good, low-key. That shit low-key touched me. You know when niggas be like, “I needed to hear that”?

MIKE, ?/10:
I low-key don’t got no rating for this jawn right here. Bro behind him is fucking killing me. You ever see the shit where it be hella old niggas singing together? I feel like that’s definitely where they at right now. It’s a Puerto Rican flag in the back covering the window.

Earl Sweatshirt, ?/10:
I don’t know if that’s full bars. That might be a different medium.

Life Advice from Earl Sweatshirt and MIKE:

• “Take care of each other.” - Earl

• “Have fun. Laugh as much as possible. Make sure it’s real laughter. Don’t laugh when you’re uncomfortable. But laugh when you get the opportunity to.” - MIKE

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You not Black if you don’t know at least one Ta’Carra Williams. No, like for real. You’re literally not Black. Even if you have Black skin. You’re not Black if you don’t know a Ta’Carra Williams. You know, she works in corporate for some company that you would not expect to require or have a corporate. She the one in the family with a “good job”. She’s the one who Erica Campbell made “I Luh God” for. She’s the target audience for “I Luh God” by Erica Campbell. Deadass. And you not Black if you don’t know her.

Her house always be smelling like air. Like if air had a scent, her house always be smelling strongly like that. Her kids lowkey mean as fuck, but her son got a Nintendo 3DS, and fucks with dinosaurs, so you lowkey fuck with that nigga. Her daughter be in her own world, though. She probably works at the bank, actually. And her house smells like cranberry pie, and she’s really fun at karaoke. Or nah, actually. Maybe she goes to a super-church, and the Target near her house for some reason feels more Target than any other Target you ever been to or ever will be. Maybe.

Every other house in her neighborhood is one-story. Except for her house. She the only house in the neighborhood with stairs. She refers to Mary J. Blige and Faith Evans as “her girls”. She don’t know them. She work for the school, too, never specifically specifying what the job is. Just saying, “I work for the school.”

And also she praying for them people over there.

Her name is Ta’Carra Williams. And you not Black if you don’t know her. Yeah, you heard me right. African-American status revoked.

If you ain’t never listened to her belting out “Let it Snow,” by Boyz II Men on Christmas morning. If you ain’t never been lectured by her husband on how important it is for Black people to get “financial literacy”. If you ain’t never babysat her chihuahua. If you ain’t never received a hug that felt like what hugs were intended for. If you ain’t never gotten the GOAT hug. If Ta’Carra Williams has never given you the GOAT hug, don’t let me catch you celebrating Black History Month. Forreal.

Jack Harlow, on behalf of all Black people everywhere, I am so fucking sorry. When we were making fun of you, saying stuff like, “Watch how he becomes a country artist in five years,” we forgot about the audacity of white men. We did not understand that by making these jokes, we were paying attention to you. And because of that, we forgot that when a white person knows that Black people are paying attention to them, they lose their fucking minds. We all, collectively, forgot about that one time in college when we were hyping up lil’ White Kev ‘cause he knew all the lyrics to Back That Azz Up, and then lil’ White Kev got too excited and said the n-word.

Forgive us for what we did not understand then, but know all too well now. We go through so damn much as a people, that sometimes it’s hard to keep track of all the bullshit we have to remember. In times like that, moments like these happen. We end up blindsided at 4pm on an idle weekday, listening to you do runs. Staring at you photoshopped on the cover of Voodoo (which counts as blasphemy against the Black community, by the way). We end up, like we always do, playing catch-up with the endless onslaught against our people and culture, smacking ourselves on the head that we forgot to cover yet another base. Yet another injustice. Another sin. Another wigga.

Jack Harlow, I am so sorry. We did not mean that shit. On behalf of all of us, please pick up an acoustic guitar and a beer. No 7ths, 9ths, 11ths, or 13ths allowed. Just cowboy chords and a pure, poetic belief in the American experiment.

Brent Faiyaz Been Trying To Figure Out How To Sing For Over A Decade

LOS ANGELES, CA— This past Tuesday night, former professional football player and current disgraced independent journalist Shannon Sharpe underwent a strange transformation when a full moon graced Los Angeles. According to reports from eyewitnesses, as the light from the full moon broke across the horizon, Sharpe’s pupils dilated intensely. His skin turned a strange, smooth green. And his penis became his tongue, which then became forked. A scent of blood permeated the air, agitating and exciting Sharpe. He followed it maniacally, muttering to himself—quiet enough to be creepy, but just loud enough to be heard—"Miss B. Nasty, Miss B. Nasty, Miss B. Nasty, mmm, mmm, mmm,” over and over, until it became an incantation of sorts.

His scaly tongue wiggled wildly in the night sky. Sounds rushed past it. Sounds which sounded like, “I want some PUSSAAAAAYYYY! YEAAAAA! I’MA FREAKY ASS NIGGA! YEAAAA!” It was a sight to behold, and fear. According to eyewitnesses.

In reaction to Sharpe’s maniacal, amphibious state, bystanders reportedly called the authorities. Upon hearing this though, Sharpe spun around over and over again for a really long time, before suddenly taking flight into the nearby woods. “My LinkTree senses are tingling,” he is reported to have said, before disappearing into the night.

Written by: Saheim Patrick

Music in 2024 was, at best, chaotic. At worst, it was a Twitter thread disguised as an album rollout. With Drake and Kendrick Lamar locked in a Shakespearean pissing contest over who could release the more emotionally unhinged diss track, the rest of the music industry seemed to spiral into a digital soundscape of filth and mediocrity. Amidst this cacophony of chart-driven ephemera, one song, one moment, emerged like a beam of light through the fog of algorithmic mediocrity.

Type Shit, the fourth track on Future and Metro Boomin’s album titled We Don’t Trust You, is a triumph of form, function, and future-forward misogyny. A bombastic collaboration filled with irreverent ad-libs about Percocet, whores, and various modes of flexing, it manages to reaffirm its own thematic coherence through the hypnotic repetition of the titular phrase: “type shit.” Like a chorus in a Greek tragedy or a dissertation footnote, it punctuates every bar with finality; a linguistic stamp of authenticity in a world increasingly devoid of meaning.

But buried deep in this nihilistic anthem is a verse so raw, so startling in its emotional intelligence, that it demands closer analysis. Playboi Carti, a rapper best known for mumbling incoherently at the end of various rapper’s songs and dressing like an inner city vampire, steps briefly out of his trademark gibberish and into clarity. And in this moment of lucidity, he delivers what may be the most important lyric of 2024:

This single bar deserves serious cultural analysis. In the line “she gripping all on my balls I gotta move type shit,” Playboi Carti confronts the unspoken yet pervasive gendered dynamics of bodily autonomy and male discomfort in heteronormative sexual interactions. While mainstream discourse often centers women as recipients of unwanted attention, Carti bravely reverses the narrative, exposing how men, too, are subject to non-consensual touch, a topic rarely addressed in hypermasculine rap culture especially in a post #MeToo world. His use of the phrase “gotta move” functions not merely as a physical response, but as a symbolic departure from oppressive expectations that men must welcome all sexual advances. By placing this moment within the casual flow of a club-ready track, Carti subversively critiques the societal silence around male vulnerability. In this essay, I will explore how this lyric offers a groundbreaking lens on performative masculinity, bodily agency, and the nuanced politics of consent in late capitalist hookup culture.

While the lyric in question may initially seem antithetical to the sprawling introspective monologues of Fyodor Dostoevsky, a closer reading reveals eerie symmetry between Playboi Carti’s spontaneous decision to physically “move” and the psychological inertia of Dostoevsky’s narrator in Notes from Underground. Both men are caught in the throes of unwanted intimacy (think Carti’s literal, the Underground Man’s emotional) and both respond with an act of retreat. In Notes, the narrator famously declares, “I am a sick man… I am a spiteful man,” distancing himself from society, romance, and touch. Likewise, Carti removes himself from unsolicited fondling with the weary decisiveness of a man who has seen too much. He too is sick: of this world, of these hoes, of this pressure to be perpetually accessible.

The Underground Man’s entire identity is defined by his refusal to act as others expect, a condition that culminates in painful self-isolation. His rejection of society’s norms, much like Carti’s refusal to engage in a presumably pleasurable sexual encounter, becomes an act of rebellion — one rooted not in strength, but in deep alienation. When Carti says “I gotta move,” we should not mistake this for a flex. It is an expression of agency hard-won through paranoia, boundary-setting, and perhaps trauma. He is not enjoying the moment; he is surviving it. It is a modern retelling of the existential standoff between body and will, desire and dignity. Like Dostoevsky’s narrator, Carti positions himself as a man both disgusted by the world and enslaved to it. He is a man who says “no” not out of clarity, but out of a deep and unspoken ache.

Ultimately, the tension between erotic expectation and emotional detachment drives both men toward dramatic, isolating gestures. For Dostoevsky’s anti-hero, it’s a descent into irrelevance and madness. For Carti, it’s a moonwalk out of the club with his dignity intact. One uses high-minded, sprawling prose to obscure his vulnerability; the other uses monosyllables and vibey ad-libs. But both are screaming the same thing: “Do not touch me. I am more idea than man.” That Carti chooses to whisper this through the language of contemporary trap music rather than Russian literature is irrelevant. The message remains unchanged: intimacy, when wielded without consent, is violence. And sometimes, the only protest left is movement.

There exists, within the quiet suffering of modern man, an unspoken rite of passage: the brutal, poorly executed handjob. For decades, men have endured this trial in silence, their faces locked in grimaces of performative pleasure as their genitals are gripped like a pepper grinder. We do not cry out, not because it feels good, but because we are afraid. Afraid of bruising egos. Afraid of being “mean.” Afraid that somewhere along the line, a kind-hearted woman has mistaken our dicks for sentient lawn mowers that can be yanked into climax by sheer force. These are not intimate moments, they are acts of psychological warfare disguised as foreplay. Carti’s line, “she gripping all on my balls, I gotta move,” is not just a complaint. It is a declaration. A battle cry. A “me too” for the painfully tugged.

In that moment, Carti becomes more than a rapper. He becomes a prophet for the neglected. A beacon for the men who have ever stared at the ceiling in stunned silence as their testicles were manhandled with the same sensitivity one might use to knead frozen dough. We are told we are lucky to be touched at all. That we should be grateful. And so we suffer. Not out of enjoyment, but out of politeness. Carti says: no more. He moves. He chooses self-preservation over misplaced courtesy. His bravery, in that single bar, shines like a lighthouse through the fog of sexual discomfort, guiding us toward a future where men can say, clearly and without shame: “Please stop, you are tugging my penis like a you are trying to yank a better looking guy out of me.”

In summation, Type Shit is more than a trap anthem… it is a cultural text, a postmodern cry for agency in the erogenous battlefield. Where Dostoevsky’s Raskolnikov crushed an old woman to wrest control over his moral universe, Playboi Carti simply moves his balls out of a vice grip. And yet, the courage required is no less. In an era where masculinity is often filtered through silence or satire, Carti dares to confront discomfort head-on, or… rather, hand-on. His verse is a revelation, a call to action, and a soft-spoken revolution against one of the last unchallenged frontiers of male pain. We owe him gratitude. And perhaps, a gentle reminder to all: if you love someone, hold them… but not like that.

Springfield, IL— This past Tuesday, Jordan Cousins, 7, was informed by his teacher that he could “…be anything when he grows up. Even the president.” Cousins was reportedly delighted by this news, and started to truly consider the possibility. The little boy clearly forgot, though, that this will never happen, as neither of his parents—or lineage—have any direct or implicit ties to the CIA, Ivy League Universities, or any significant American institution. Womp, womp, Jordan. Maybe next time try dreaming bigger than being a puppet of empire?

Written by: Saheim Patrick

OPINION: I don’t like it when a nigga dap me up and he got wet hands. Why are they wet? And you know them shits is wet. So why would you touch my hand? Why are they wet? Is it water? What liquid is on your hands? Deadass, bro. I’m not playing with you. And then when you address it, they act like they don’t know what the fuck you talking about. Nigga, how don’t you know your hands are wet? Feel them, nigga. You knew they was wet the moment that they got wet. You know why? Because you have the sensation of touch. You know how I know that? Because I got hands too, nigga. We all got fucking hands. Niggas with wet hands think they the only niggas in the world who got hands. They think they can gaslight everyone into forgetting about the sensation of touch. “I didn’t even know they was wet, bruh.” “I don’t know how they got wet.” Negro, you think my hands ain’t never been wet in my life? Now the nigga tryna get philosophical with it. Talkin’ bout, “How would you remember the times that you had wet hands, but didn’t know?” Niggas with wet hands always tryna get existential with it. Grimy sweaty slimy wet ass niggas looking for any way they can get out of the predicament they in. Nigga don’t know I be reading Sartre, too. Nigga tryna get solipsistic and skeptical. Niggas with wet hands loooooveeee the tabula rasa. How about you love a towel? Dirty nigga. You quoting Socrates and yo’ booty stank. We can speak conceptually when you get that booger out yo’ nose. That’s how I feel. Hoteps always got bad hygiene. Always talkin’ bout revolution, but you ain’t brushed yo’ teeth. How we gon’ capture the State and yo’ booty stank? Huh? Wet hand ass nigga.

BIRMINGHAM, AL— This past Tuesday, Jamie Wilson, 65, and frequent church-goer and ShadeRoom commenter, came to terms with the fact that she might not just be a big fan of society progressing. The revelation came after Wilson said out loud, “What is this world coming to?” and realized she’d been saying the refrain for nearly every year of her long ass life—and that each time it was in response to a new advancement in society.

“Maybe, over the course of six decades, I may have misinterpreted some things that were actually good as signals of the oncoming Apocalypse,” mused Wilson, reflecting on when she disparaged gay rights, women’s rights, and sliced bread.

“Nah,” she swiftly followed up, before returning to comparing gay people on Netflix to Biblical villains committed to the destruction of God’s covenant.

“Idiots,” he whispered.
“Unruly, ungrateful idiots.”

Dr. Coon lowered the binoculars from his eyes and clicked his tongue in the way men do when they believe they are witnessing the decline of civilization.

“They’re always doing that dance,” muttered Kyle, his pale and pudgy assistant, “Always the same song too. That Frankie Beverly devil song. It’s all noise. Pure madness. I hear-” WHACK. The slap landed swift and papery across Kyle’s cheek.

“Don’t editorialize, Kyle. Just observe.”

Two hundred feet away, the cookout swelled. Ribs sizzled in foil. Dominoes cracked on folding tables. A Bluetooth speaker blared Before I Let Go. Children in Crocs wobbled off rhythm. Uncles shouted. A woman with acrylic nails passed a pan of baked goods like an offering plate.

Dr. Coon hated this. He hated all of it. And not in the passive or performative way. No, his hatred was clinical. Sacred. Earned. Surgical. He whispered “I know for a fact they don’t have a permit.”

Dr. Coon was not always like this. He was once a boy. Ashy, yes. Lineup undefined. And hair that resembled taco meat from a respectable distance. He lived in an all-Black neighborhood, surrounded by what he called “unprovoked rhythm” and “emotional hostility disguised as play.”

Clarence Thomas was born in a Sonic parking lot during a thunder storm.
His mother, a gentle school librarian with dreams of moving to Connecticut, had been stood up by a man named Darnell who promised her crab legs and never returned. The delivery doctor misspelled “Cornelius” on his birth certificate and laughed when his mother asked to fix it. Thus began a life of cruelty and humiliation so consistent it became structural.

Clarence was born with no discernible hairline. Not receding. Simply absent. It gave him the look of a young professor, which only made the bullying worse. By age seven, he was already known as “parabola hairline boy” in the neighborhood. At age ten, someone threw a durag at his feet and said, “You’ll never earn this.”

Clarence went to an all black middle and high school. They teased him. They laughed when he brought cold spam for lunch. They asked him why his name sounded like a segregated law firm.

His mother bought him off-brand Jordans (worse than Shaq's) which had a logo of a man doing taxes instead of dunking. They lit on fire during recess when he tried to race a girl for her affection. She laughed. He caught an asthma attack. No one helped.

The death knell for any hope Clarence had of living his life as a respectable black man came his senior year, after every single girl he asked to prom rejected him. He asked sixteen girls to be his date. His backup plan was a girl named Tiffany who turned him down by pepper spraying him. His eventual prom date was Stormie, a 21-year-old portly white woman (held back 3 times) who called him “brother” in an affectionate but racially unclear way. She wore flip flops with a dress and said she didn’t like hip hop because it “stirs the spirits.” They were voted Worst Couple by popular consensus and awarded a coupon for Buffalo Wild Wings out of pity.

That night, Clarence wept into a hotel lobby vending machine, eating raw Pop-Tarts with no filling. He told himself that the world hated him for being refined. For using semicolons in text messages. For choosing to wear bowties unironically.

But the truth? Clarence Thomas was an asshole.

He was not some misunderstood genius. Not a tragic outsider. Just a smug, bitter, unpleasant man who corrected people’s grammar mid-conversation and cited Thomas Sowell during cafeteria debates. He was not disliked for his eloquence. He was disliked because he was insufferable. But that truth never reached him.
Clarence went to a small college in South Dakota. He found it by googling "whitest colleges in America" and finally found peace..

He then went on to receive a masters degree from Texas A&M, where he blossomed into full villainy. He became known as “The Lecture” because he would monologue at food court tables unprompted. One time a group of Black students were watching a Chappelle’s Show episode, and he interrupted with “You laugh at this, but you will cry when your credit score fails to ascend.”

He sent 37 unsolicited essays to The New York Times. He was banned from the campus NAACP chapter for submitting a proposal to “rebrand it as a think tank focused on Afro-conservative restoration.” His car was keyed weekly, and he assumed it was a conspiracy.

It wasn’t. It was just that everyone hated him.

Clarence applied to Liberty University for his PhD, citing it as “the last fortress of reason in a fallen nation.” There, he was finally embraced, not for his brilliance, but for his usefulness. He wrote his dissertation titled:

“The Hopelessness of the Negro: A Philosophical Inquiry Into Rhythm, Rebellion, and the Unchecked Ego.”

The thesis included chapters like:

- The Barbershop: Temple of Delusion
- Spades and Despair
- You Know What Saggin Spells Backwards?!?
- The Tragic Theology of Beyoncé

His white professors called it “urgent.” His Black classmates avoided eye contact. One janitor simply whispered, “That BOY ain’t right,” and kept mopping.

At graduation, Clarence did not walk across the stage. He descended from the ceiling of the gymnasium on wires stolen from the theater department. He wore a green cape made from the upholstery of retired church pews. His mask, silver, cold, unforgiving, was carved into the shape of a belt buckle mid-swing.

He landed, raised his diploma like a weapon, and declared “From this day forward, I am no longer simply Clarence Thomas. I am Dr. Coon: first of his name, last of the real ones, chosen enemy of the unsanctioned gathering. And I will not rest until joy requires documentation. Movie theaters are silent. And blacks are humbled.”

The audience applauded, mostly because they thought it was performance art. But one old white trustee cried. “Finally,” he whispered. “A Black man I can understand.”

And so it was, Supreme Court Clarence Thomas continued his life, traveling the country with his new companion, Kyle Rittenhouse, and they refused to rest until each and every black barbecue in America was squashed.

They were perched atop a Burger King like vultures.

Dr. Coon adjusted the dial on his binoculars. “Look at them,” Dr. Coon hissed. “Raw meat. Raw joy. Unlicensed.”

Kyle Rittenhouse was beside him, nude except for a utility belt, yellow stained crew socks, and Birkenstocks, vibrating with admiration.
“Yes, Doctor. You’re so wise. You speak with such logic. It makes me… hard as a roc-.”
WHACK.

“No eroticism during reconnaissance, Kyle. Now, hand me the weapon.”

Kyle grimaced and unveiled the REGAN (Radiologic Energy Gun Against Niggas) Rifle: a sonic cannon calibrated to frequencies Black Americans instinctively reject.

Tested in barbershops and once at an HBCU step show (which ended in 6 hospitalizations and 13 confused professors), it had been tuned to a single, devastating setting. The number one sound black people hate the most: Phoebe Bridges NPR tiny desk.

Dr. Coon took aim at the cookout, his gloved finger trembling with anticipation, fired, and watched as the air went cold.

A low, crooning wail seeped into the party. The sounds of music someone would only listen to on the drive home from an abortion. It sounded like the musical manifestations of returning a child you promised to adopt. Laughter turned to confusion. Plates dropped. An auntie screamed, “NOW WHAT IN THE HELL IS THAT?!” and tried to unplug the air.

Men staggered. Children wept. A folding chair folded itself.

“Phase one successful,” Dr. Coon said, salivating. “Now… on to phase two! the white babies.”

Kyle yanked back a velvet curtain to reveal a cage containing two animatronic white babies, programmed to cry at frequencies that trigger maximum white panic response. He hurled them into the crowd like cursed American Girl dolls and dialed 9-1-1.
“Yes hello! there’s violence. BLACK violence." Said Rittenhouse... "There are… BLACK people. And they’ve taken WHITE babies hostage. Please hurry!!!”

But something was wrong.

A few partygoers had resisted the sonic attack. Three of them pulled out pairs of SkullCandy headphones and began making their way towards the Burger King...
Three men emerged from the smoke of the grill: broad-shouldered, wearing the most ridiculously over sized skull candy headphones...

The Doctor scrambled to flee. He leapt from the roof, cape flapping like a green hymnbook, and landed on the pavement with a thud.

“Sorry LaMondre, I must depart!” exclaimed the Doctor.

“Who the hell is LaMondre? My name’s Jeremy. Why are you wearing that dumb ass mask? Why is your hair so happy? Yo this nigga thinks he's Kevin Durant!!!” said Jeremy.

Each of the three black men laughed at him.

“Yo!” Another one interjected.” is that Kyle Rittenhouse???”

Kyle fled. Vanished into thin air.

“No time for questions, jiggaboo!!!-” Dr. Coon exclaimed.

BANG.

A right hook, followed by a body slam. Dr. Coon fell to the pavement, shrieking.
“Ahh! Athleticism! My only weakness!”
He was stomped. Pummeled. His monocle shattered. His cape torn.
The ass whipping he received commenced for several minutes until the cops came and arrested everyone, including Dr. Coon...

Broken. Bruised. Humbled... but not defeated. Dr. Coon sat in a holding cell plotting his next move...
"I'll get you, niggas. Someday I will get you."

To be continued…

Written by Mike Birnigglia, @CantGuardMyke

Yakub is a 6,000 year old alien who the Nation of Islam claimed created the evil thing we know as White people. Now, I as a writer do not believe in Yakub. But, I’m gonna play dress-up as Hotep today. Because, I need to address my problems with Curtis “50 Cent” Jackson. What does 50 Cent have to do with Yakub? Well, 50 Cent is fucking evil.

You as a reader may be a fan of 50 Cent because of his music, business, or producing work. But please understand, 50 is a type of evilness we’ve never quite seen.

50 Cent is a coon. But not an ordinary coon. 50 is a coon who seems to make work with Black people in mind, and Black Culture loves him for it. That’s dangerous. Really dangerous. So dangerous and specific, that it may have come from the source of all evil. So, here’s 5 reasons that if Yakub is real, 50 Cent is his only Black descendant.

1. 50 cent turned 50. Now he’s on Fox News.

Recently 50 launched a series with Fox Nation titled, “50 Ways to Catch a Killer”. Now look, I’m not for murder, and I definitely think you should catch killers, but putting a show like that on Fox Nation, is the most text book cooning shit ever. He might as well have had the ghost of Charlie Kirk be his script supervisor.

As a man who’s had a 25 year delegated career. He perfectly timed the perfect moment to take this conservative switch. Ironically when he turned 50, something that’s a coincidence? I think not. Yakub has a sense for these things.

It seems almost magical that Black pages such as The Shade Room, and etc, highlight 50’s Diddy accomplishments, more than his Fox News work. Something that has the spell of Yakub all over it, Yakub’s creation of White people also love keeping Black people distracted, more than helping.

There’s no clearer parallel than 50 turning 50 when his career hit his quarter century in, he flipped to the other side of the coin.

2. 2022 Super Bowl & In Da Club

When Preacher boy sung that song in Sinners, that’s what happens when you play In Da Club for White people. It unifies them. It turns them up. Whenever that alcohol hits their system, it’s as if they return to their home. Home meaning, the freedom to be White. Many hip-hop artists have songs that make White people feel free. But 50 Cents is special, think back to his performance of the song at the 2022 Super Bowl.

(SMH)

Why is he upside down? Some people think it’s a call back to the 2003 music video. I don’t think so.

I view it as a signal to his mighty Yakub, telling him “We did it”. If you remember, 50 Cent wasn’t originally promoted to be at the SuperBowl, his presence was a surprise, so when he came out to his hit song “In Da Club”. The audience roars in a way he’s never heard before, capturing the hearts of White households around the country. Helping push the message of his developer Yakub, unifying White people.

Yakub magic stays longer once you realize, Black people like myself didn’t notice the White liberation, as we were distracted with joy, because we finally had Super Bowl representation.

3. This nigga made an album called. “Before I Self Destruct”

In 2009, Yakub planted 50s seeds so clearly. Because only a devil like Yakub could make an album this booty. As this project is so artificially pushed, every song sounds like a piece of the GTA 2 soundtrack.

The album is such a clear indication of where 50 was heading. Coming off his last 2 albums which were disappointments, Yakub knew 50 Cent’s rap career was coming to an end, hence to why he named the album “Before I self Destruct” as this was 50 Cent’s second to last album before he turned to a conservative switch. It’s obvious Yakub is speaking through 50, as you can see the fire coming out of his face. I believe the fire symbolizes the evilness Yakub planted within 50, and soon (after 50 self-destructs) the fire will be fully out, and we get the evil 50 Cent, which we are closer and closer to seeing today.

4. He was put on by Eminem

……

5. 50 Cent VS. Big Meech. Nigga how you become ya own product??!?

BMF is a drama series, executively produced by 50 Cent, which ran from 2021-2025. The show is a fictional retelling of the real life “Black Mafia Family,” led by Drug Mogul, Big Meech. I would argue the show is one of the most famous shows by Black people, for Black people, in the past decade. I personally didn’t watch BMF because I don’t like to cry, but everyone in my family does.

The interesting thing about 50 and this show, is that Mr.Beef aka 50 Cent, found himself publicly feuding with the subject of his own Tv Show “Big Meech”. Why? Because of street rules and petty shit.

The phrase “Never get High on ya own supply” is a common phrase in street culture, that was used to teach drug dealers, if you’re gonna sell drugs, don’t smoke it. Not only because you lose your product, but you become the fiend you’re dealing, and 50 cent obviously hasn’t learned that. 50 Cent getting into real life beef with Big Meech shows tone deaf-ness reason, why he even got into a show like BMF in the first place. 50 Cent didn’t want to teach people the lessons of street culture, he wanted to profit off of others’ struggles while making it entertainment, just like the offspring of Yakub. The only difference between 50 and Yakub in this instance, is that 50 is cut from that cloth.

See when Yakub was creating 50 he made sure to up the hoodness of that nigga by 600 percent, so that everything 50 says about the streets is valid to common day people. Cause logistically, who is the common person to call out 50s street credit? Shit, I ain’t never been shot 9 times, and if I did, I wouldn’t make a hit song like “Many Men” about it! That’s gangsta nigga.

Yakub knows that if 50 has this credit in the streets, any capitalist move he makes on the streets is valid to the common mind. So, when a producer gets into a public feud with his own TV subject, that’s less of a bad business move, and more just “50 being 50”. And that’s not okay.

CONCLUSION

There are many other reasons to think 50 cent is Yakub’s only Black descendant, but these are just mine. I know everybody in January 2026 loves him because he produced the Diddy Doc, but personally, I’m not trusting someone who has a song with R Kelly to teach me about Diddy.

All in all, 50 is just a nasty capitalist. In the words of Professor Jiang Xuequin. “Consumerism is the perfection of slavery,” and in that logic, Curtis “50 Cent” Jackson has been building one of the most unique plantations we’ve ever seen. I mean shit, his name is 50 Cent, even his own name is commodified.

Barefoot Contessa Cooks Crack

NEW YORK, NY— This past Tuesday, Nation of Islam leader and killer of Malcom X, Louis Farrakhan, joined the television program Finding Your Roots to take a DNA test, where he discovered that he’s 100% Dominican. A shocking revelation, as Farrakhan has enjoyed a sixty-year career as a Black revolutionary leader.

The Nation of Islam is reportedly making plans to rebrand as the “Dominicans of Islam,” as Farrakhan is reportedly now proud of and excited for his newfound identity. When asked about his past life as an African-American, Farrakhan told the reporter, “I no Black, I Dominican..”

CHICAGO, IL— This past Tuesday, Monica Thomas and Kareem Said brought into the world a beautiful baby boy, Real Nigga Baby. The infant was born at 6:04 am at Rush Hospital, and reportedly didn’t cry, poop, or breastfeed as he’s “not with allat attention-seeking clout-chasing bullshit.”

When his parents attempted to hold him, he refused, and held them instead, telling Thomas, “I got you Ma Dukes.” He then drove them from the hospital to a home he purchased for them while he was still in the womb. We wish the Thomas-Said family a healthy and prosperous life.

ATLANTA, GA— This past Tuesday, the historic National Institute of Old Black Niggas (NIOBN) released a bold and sweeping study on the link between film and national intelligence. The project—which has reportedly been under development for over 30,000 years, since the beginning of storytelling itself—concluded that the world’s most powerful and dangerous secrets are being hidden within screenplays. Although centered around a select number of “key” films—They Cloned Tyrone (2023), Sinners (2025), and the “haunting yet illuminating” works of Jordan Peele—the study and institute ultimately “hope to create a new cognition of sorts”—one which “believes any movie, if thought about hard enough, can be a conspiracy theory.” For example, the institute applied their framework to a small control group of seemingly innocuous films—Babe (1995), 80 for Brady (2023), and Are We There Yet? (2005)—to argue that all of them “symbolized” something about “what they don’t want you to know”.

Aside from critical analysis, the institute also heavily used anecdotal evidence as a source. Many members shared that they “knew a dude who knew a dude who once saw some weird shit,” and then later saw this experience reflected in a film, for example.

In the report’s conclusion, the institute wrote, “Y’all focused on the wrong people. We’re always talking about folks like Trump, Netanyahu, and Jeffrey Epstein. The real global elite is at them coffee shops, on them MacBooks, using that Final Draft.” While the science, psychology, and statistics worlds at large all mostly ignore the institute—and show no signs of stopping—it’ll be interesting to see the long-term ramifications of this study, especially amongst the Black community. Dr. Umar Johnson, complimenting the group’s research, called the study “as legit as the Willie Lynch Letter.”

Peace and love, kinfolk. I can kick 16 for you? No, brother, it’s not the usual bullshit. You see, my raps aren’t typical—I read.

You said you down for that? Aight, bet.

Listen,
The black bourgeoisie is useless!
Capitalist expropriation is inclusive.
Walk with nooses chained to ya feet..
I slained on this beat all existing doubt—
You desire routes, read the books, and hold ya hands, the maps will show you light when its nothing but the wind,
The day will show you yang when it’s nothing but the yin!

I seen the pain, and I danced in the rain,
Flamboyant and black
Joyful jeers gee whizz! I spin and I is
I’m the I in eye, it’s I and I
And my fellow comrades, united fronts.
Hibiscus leaves in the gun,
Shot over the rising sun
Audhu Billahi Minashaitanir Rajeem!
And send a prayer for the breaking of all oppressive regimes.

Thank you. How does that sit with you? You need some time to process that? Okay, okay. Word. Respect. Love. One love. You gotta go somewhere? Okay, bet, well thank you for your time brother. Respect.

Oh no, please don’t tell me to stay safe. Tell me to stay dangerous. And black.

Alright now, brother. Peace and love.

I’m a 20 year old boy from the Black parts of America, studying acting at a PWI in NYC. My dean, a White man with a nasty scarf collection, came to me and said we’re doing a play from his favorite writer, August Wilson. Now, ion know who the hell August Wilson is, but I’m just happy my teacher is finally letting us do scenes from a Black playwright. If I have to do another scene from Death of a Salesman, I will find a way to kill myself.

I wanted to learn more about August Wilson, so I got a copy of one of his classics to read. But then… shit got fucking weird. Really weird. As I opened the play, my body got pulled out of my chair. I was scared.

I closed my eyes in order to hide from the unknown. Then I felt my body drop hard. I opened my eyes…and oh my god…I’m in an August Wilson play.

I was trying to be comfortable at first because it’s hella Black people. Something I’m not really used to seeing as a PWI Student. Then I realized this shit is really not what I’m used to. Like at all. Everything is different. It’s not like NYC a bit. The town is bare, old. Something like a city in an old Western movie, and every nigga there is dressed like it’s their first day outta slavery.

I looked around the town and thought, “Damn this time period is ass. They got no drip.” But then I saw my reflection, and realized I was wearing the exact fit everybody has on.

Shit!! I’m dressed like White people’s John Henry.

Now I’m panicking. I want to get back home, and I definitely don’t wanna lose myself in this town at all. So I decide to go up to local townspeople to ask for help.

I went up to one guy, but he swiftly cut me off and replied with a three minute monologue about his family history, while strongly extending his vowels. I tried to ask him another question, and suddenly found myself using the exact same dialect he was using!!!

Oh hell no! I done caught the August Wilson voice!! Shit!! Now I look 20, but sound 56! Shit!!!! Now everytime I speak I sound like I’m the first Black man to ever express his emotions. Shit!!!!!!!

I assumed that if I talked to men in this universe, I’d catch the voice. So I decided to switch it up, and only ask Black women for help. And nigga, that woulda been a good idea. But, everytime I asked a woman a question, every single woman, without a second thought, would start crying a solo tear, and say, “My name is Bereatha, and you’re gonna respect it Clyde!” While furiously pointing her Index finger into my chest.

Now, I don’t know who the hell Clyde is, but he needs to chill. Because every time I argued back, “My name isn’t Clyde!” every woman, without a second thought, would start crying harder, and throw their snot on me. Obviously leading me to run away bewildered, confused on why we couldn’t have more developed conversations than this.

I was lost by the townspeople. So I decided to go to the top. Aka, the mayor’s office. Cause shit, somebody with power must have an answer for me to get back home. But as I entered the office, the unexpected events continued. Everybody who worked in that fucking office was White. And then the mayor arrived. And he was White. A tall White man.

He said, “Hello. I am White Man, and I am the head of August Wilson town. I bought the rights to this world, and I am in charge of it now.”

I said, “You can’t do that. This is a place for Black people, by Black people! Just because you bought the rights doesn’t mean you can force Black people to act like this!”

The mayor looked at me and laughed, and then clapped twice and yelled, “Action!” The lights flickered in the office. The room started shaking. I started to yell out for help, but I noticed that my voice wasn’t my voice. It was the vowels again. The stretching vowels that had overtook my throat before! Shit. The White Man’s claps summoned the August Wilson voice.

I closed my eyes again to hide from ignorance. And suddenly… the shaking stopped. Everything was silent. As my eyes fluttered open, I looked and saw I was in a small dark room, with black curtains, and black floors.

I looked around yelling for help, but nobody answered. The only thing I heard was my own echo calling back for me. Suddenly, the Black curtain opened. It was a framed picture of me, in that White people’s John Henry outfit on a stage. Written below said, “You, in an August Wilson play.”

I stared at the picture for 10 minutes. And thought, damn, at least I’m in play by a Black playwright.

Near the end of our conversation, comedian Mandal laments that when he was younger he “really wanted to be a serious individual.” He pined to “be smart,” or “some type of leader,” always finding himself pursuing a plan or dream of his that he could never, for some reason, find the follow-through to actually accomplish—be it in the world of corporate accounting, or running for student president (and winning) in high school. He had to accept the fact, he says, that he’s just “silly.” Learning to embrace that has been his life’s journey, in a way. However, I’d argue that the two qualities—serious and silly—are not only deeply reconcilable, but inseparable, and the Atlanta-born humorist is living, thriving proof.

Let us take, for a moment, the litany of impressive credits to his name. He’s the warmup comic for Everybody’s Live with John Mulaney, and has performed his sprawling, hilarious, and sprightly sets in coveted spots on The Tonight Show Starring Jimmy Fallon, Netflix is a Joke, and Don’t Tell Comedy. He’s also produced a number of animated programming for Adult Swim—writing and starring in Mandal Takes an L, as well as co-creating, along with Zae Jordan and Javier Williams, the viral series Lil Daddy. None of that is mentioning that he’s adored by the world of hip-hop, too—lending comedic lines to two major rap albums this year: Zelooperz’ Dali Ain’t Dead and Earl Sweatshirt’s Live Laugh Love. Vulture naming him, in 2024, a “Comedian You Should and Will Know,” was so apt that the honor now feels sterile. Mandal has not, as he’d suggest about his past, been subsumed by his outsized ambitions, but instead, outgrown them.

But put all that aside, and what I have to say next is as cliché as you’d probably expect—if only it weren’t true. That is, in the best way, there’s no impressions of any of that when you speak with him (except for how funny he is). The comedian is strikingly humble, warm, and human. And it was a refreshing conversation, as he walked me through his upbringing, the influence of a certain yellow fry-cook, and the mental dangers of comedy. At a time when this career and industry feels increasingly uncertain, Mandal is flat-footed and focused on what’s actually relevant: the cultivation of an artistic spirit, and an everyday commitment to simply trying to be a good, kind person.

The more I do these interviews, the more I’m reminded why those who end up “making it,” make it. They’re uninterested in—bored by, even—the empty pursuit of “fame” that commonly permeate the epicenters they reside in (Mandal is currently based in Los Angeles) as well as the symptoms inherent: envy, bitterness, or self-doubt, for example. They’re concerned, instead, with questions of process and inspiration. As opposed to fame, their sights are set on craft. And where others are repulsed by the struggle inherent to the art-making process, Mandal—like all artists who approach greatness—can’t even seem to begin to imagine a way of living without it.

This interview has been edited and condensed for length and clarity.

You’re from Atlanta, which you’ve called “the best city in the world.” I’m also from there, and I think it’s such a unique and specific place. So many characters, colors, contradictions—which I guess you could say about any city. But what makes Atlanta special, I think, is that this is all grounded by such a strong Blackness. It kind of feels like every type of Black person exists there—the entire spectrum. How do you think growing up there has informed your comedic sensibilities?

I agree with what you saying, bro. I feel like Atlanta, because it’s a Black universe, you get to be this weird niche, where I feel like I kind of always had an odd sense of humor. But like, I don’t want to give myself too much credit. You know people be like, “I’m weirddd. I’m twisteddd.” You know what I’m saying? But I feel like I always—I wouldn’t say different—but I always was just a little alternative in what I thought was funny. And I think that only exists in places where the universe is Black. So then, now we kind of all have our own little niches.

I feel like it’s a thing that some people have a hard time conceptualizing of: like, everybody in the place was Black. So you didn’t really have a perspective of anything beyond that. You filled your personalities, relationships, whatever, based on whatever niche thing you got into. I think it allowed the space for me to have the type of comedy I have.

Yeah, for sure. I felt like that, too. College is my first time ever going to a school that’s not, like, over 90% Black. And now I feel like it’s the first time I’m ever feeling that pressure. Like, feeling like there’s “types” of Blackness. And that you have to fit into a certain one—I never even noticed. When it was time to apply to colleges and people were like, “Do you want to go to a majority Black school?” or whatever, I didn’t even know that was, like, a benefit. Because that was just my reality. You know?

Yeah, absolutely. I feel like when I was applying to school—I went to UGA. I was either gonna go to UGA or Morehouse. But Morehouse was too expensive. But I didn’t perceive how different it was going to be being at UGA. Like they was like, “Oh, you know UGA a white school?” I’m like, oh, it’s gonna be some white people, but I imagine it’s just gonna be...

Right.

And we had our own good community of Black people, but I didn’t think it was gonna be like, Oh. This is an entirely different world from what I’m used to. You know what I’m saying?

Yeah, I was just about to ask that. What was it like going to a PWI from an Atlanta, majority-Black upbringing?

Man, honestly bro, we had such a tight-knit community of Black people that it still felt like home, but it just felt like my world was smaller. That’s all. Like, it was so many people from Atlanta there so it was still cool. We still had events and stuff. It just wasn’t a whole universe. It was our little bubble. It wasn’t too bad.

Were you in the Black Student Union?

I was president of this organization called Black Male Leadership Society. We did a lot of stuff. And then I was involved in some of the campus events. I was really bad at it though, bro. I was a really bad leader altogether. But it was fun just being apart of that stuff, and that kind of helped me have a sense of community.

That’s interesting hearing you say you feel like you were such a bad leader, because I remember hearing you [in an interview] talk about when you were student body president…

Woooo, ay you did some research! I’ve never been a person that somebody felt like they needed to do research on. This is a cool moment. I appreciate that.

When I was in high school, bro. We had this race for president. I wasn’t in student body my whole time in high school until student year. And then, I was running for president, and I had T-shirts, and back then I wasn’t Mandal. I was trying to get the nickname going: Dirty. I wanted to be called Dirty. I don’t know why. And then I was telling people we was gonna “dirt the vote.” And dirt was an acronym for determination. intelligence, responsibility, and trustworthiness.

Oh shit.

I made commercials with my homeboy’s little brothers. And then I did the speech, and I was funny. But everybody else in my class, they didn’t vote for me because they knew I was trash. But all the underclassmen voted for me. And then I won. Looking back on it, I slick was the first Trump, bruh. I really won off the ignorance of the people who didn’t know that I was a trash individual.

My high school principal told me to my face that I was the worst president that the school ever had.

Really? Was there, like, an inciting event for that?

I just couldn’t get nothing done. They had a teacher’s appreciation program and it sucked that year because the student body runs that, and I was the president, and I had to get that done. It was bad, man. I really flubbed that.

That’s such an interesting thorough line—this discomfort with leadership. You’ve said before that the career you entered post-grad made you “miserable,” one of which consisted of various accounting and sales positions at logistics and law firms around metro-Atlanta. It’s interesting, though, because you now spoof and play on this kind of career path in your new show, Big Biz. I’d love to hear more about the inspiration behind that show, and how, like there, you use bad or shitty experiences as comedic inspiration.

Dang, bro. This a real interview.

Yeah, so. When I got out of school—it’s a reoccurring thing that I’ve always had, and maybe it’s an ADHD thing. But I’ll have these really vast dreams, but then, for some reason, I can’t deliver on it. When I was in school I was doing marketing and stuff, man. And then when I got out, it was just hard, bro. It was just difficult. Like, I remember it was a thing that made it click that I wasn’t going to be good at my job.

I was working at AT&T. And we all in the thing, and the lady’s like, “Hey, the people who do good in this job—who really excel—they come to work early. They come to work early before they ‘pose to be there, because they excited to work. So, if you somebody who thinks they’re going to be the best salesman we’ve ever had, we come in early!” And then the next day, I was the only one who came on time. I didn’t process that she was telling us, “Hey, don’t come to work early.” I just didn’t have that, you know?

So I feel like a lot of those failures throughout, like me being a person who would be like, okay, I’ma try to do this big program. Or be president of this organization— I always had good intentions. But I just never wasn’t good at getting the things done.

And I feel like comedy is one of the first things where that can kind of help a little. Because you’re talking. So you’re hyperbolizing in a way that instead of just trying to get people to do things, you’re just making people laugh.

But you made a good point about Big Biz. Big Biz was based on some of my experience with industry, and I think my strongest thing I do comedically is being, like, a person who is just saying a bunch of nonsense. Like, a person who’s attempting to seem like they know something, and they just ignorant. But they don’t realize how ignorant they sound. I feel like that was me when I was younger, and I use that comedically.

You said something similar in another interview. That earlier in your life, “I was a person who wanted to be a serious person, and I just wasn’t.” I see that in what you’ve said about your writing process, which you say is centered around “being silly.” That you feel most comfortable as a comic when you’re embracing that part of you. What does “silly” mean to you? And how naturally does it come to you? Do you ever find yourself doing specific things to try to tap into it?

I think it just comes, bro. When I was younger I really wanted to be a serious individual. Like, I wanted to be some type of leader, or be smart. And I don’t know if it’s a coping mechanism or not, but I feel like now I’m kind of okay with being like, hey. I’m a silly individual, and I like to make stuff that’s funny. I feel like silly became important to me because I realized the things that I enjoyed when I was a kid was always that. And so I feel like it got a place in entertainment. So, for me, it’s like, I’m just carrying on what I liked when I was a kid.

What were some of those things? What were your biggest comedic inspirations?

SpongeBob, bro. That cat SpongeBob.

Ed, Edd, n Eddy. Adult Swim—Boondocks, Squidbillies, the Eric Andre Show, Tim and Eric. Shoot, I mean even when you watching, like, Dragon Ball Z, bro. It’s silly stuff in there. When he go to train with buddy, and buddy tries to make the jokes. It’s a bunch of stuff where I feel like the parts that always made me laugh were absurd. And maybe it’s a level of escapism from whatever, but I always like stuff that’s absurd.

My first emotion when I’m laughing is, “Whaaaat?” I like that. Some people like relatability. They like, “Oh, I identify with that.” And that makes them laugh. But with me, I always been like, “Something very stupid is happening.” Or something does not make sense. And that make me laugh.

I see that for sure. That Nelson Mandela soup joke…

Bruh, sometimes I just get in like a little word association riff. Where I’m just saying some junk, and I say it and like… I thought it was funny, but then when Thebe (rapper Earl Sweatshirt) laughed so loud, I was like, “Okay, this is doing something.”

Who are some of your biggest influences in stand-up specifically?

Hannibal Buress. Hannibal was the first person I seen who was…I don’t know how to say this without it sounding the wrong way. ‘Cause I’m not saying nothings wrong with this, but, Hannibal was the first Black person who I seen who I was like, oh, this cat is off, but he not doing the “fish-out-of-water” thing. And not saying nothings wrong with that, [but] that just wasn’t my experience.

Some people, they were the one whatever of a white community, but you could tell that [Hannibal] grew up in whatever parts people grew up in, but he just somehow was a little odd. And I feel like I identified with that. I remember on that first album, My Name is Hannibal, when he was like how rappers be talking about how the chains be blinding people. And then he do that little act out. When he like, “Oh, I got astigmatism.” That joint—and then of course the pickle juice joke—all that type of stuff I was like oh, this my favorite comic.

And then, I read an article about Hannibal where he mentioned Mitch Hedberg. And I like him, but I can’t write as well as bro. But I like his stuff. I like Dick Gregory. Redd Foxx. Redd Foxx was so cool ‘cause he just had good swag on stage. You know, he taking a sip of the drank, he got the suit on.

Also, too, I was a big fan of Demetri Martin when I was a kid.

Deon Cole. Deon Cole is fye because he was the guy…he kind of let the audience in on the idea of working bits. Where, before, everybody believed we were almost like magicians. Where they didn’t know if it was rehearsed, or they didn’t know if there was, like, a process. But Deon Cole, when he started bringing the pad on the stage, people like, “Oh, this is a thing that he’s crafting.” And then people started to appreciate that crafting.

And then the classics, you know. Of course, Chappelle. Of course, Chris Rock.

You’ve spoken before about the cost of comedy and stand-up. How “as long as you’re doing standup, you’re seeking someone else’s approval,” and how that’s affected your sense of self and value. How are you negotiating that cost these days? As your career grows bigger, but you grow older and more mature, do you think you’re getting better at it? Or worse?

Okay, so I have a theory, bro. And people disagree with me on this a lot. I have a lot of bad opinions. And one of them is: I think that people think that people who are unwell get into stand-up, which is true, but I also think that stand-up makes you unwell.

Here’s what I think. Two things. I think that the amount of dopamine you get from killing a set is not common in people’s lives. That’s the amount of attention you get at graduation, you get at a wedding, you know, maybe you get “Teacher of the Year.” But we get that every day. And so I feel that just like with drugs, you get all those dopamine hits in your head. And it becomes chasing a high. Just like any other drug where your brain isn’t producing it as much as it could, because you’re getting it from this super-surge high. So I think that affects our brains, right?

And I think the second thing it does, because of that, is it kind of asks for approval. Like you’re asking, “Is this funny?” And then, “How is it funny?” You’re kind of asking something out of them with the laugh. Over time, if you do that every night for seven, eight years, it’s gonna affect the other parts of your life. Just like anything. If you on the football field, tackling every night, guess what, bro? When you get up, you you gonna have a little limp to you in your forties.

But to answer your question, what I try to do now is create value outside of the stage. Where I feel like for so much of my young adult life, I was so focused on this thing, because I didn’t have other things. You know, I was in a relationship in my late 20s, but in my early 20s I didn’t have relationships, I was broke, or I didn’t have any accomplishments, so I was like, “Oh, this thing got to work.” So I put all my value into that. So if I did good, I was the coolest person in the world, and if I did bad, I was the worst person in the world, which ain’t true.

And so now I started to be like, okay, well, am I a good son? Am I a good family member? Am I a good community member? Am I nice to people around me? Do people respect me? Do I respect others? And I think that putting more value in that stuff allows for you to deal with the ups and downs of the stage. You know what I’m saying? And you got to do that. Because just being so at the mercy of other people’s opinions…it’s bad for you.

So, I feel like that’s how I try to combat it. But sometimes that don’t work. So, my real answer is: I don’t know.

You write and perform on Lil Daddy, which you’ve helped create with Zae Jordan and Javier Williams. That show and its success, I think, is such a testament to the power of community and creative collaboration. What lessons from that show, and just creating your own stuff in general, would you say you’ve learned?

Writing is hard, bruh. Honestly, it kind of taught me that sometimes I can overthink what is funny. And then the work ethic. Like, I feel like with stand-up, you kind of create your own routine, and how you go about doing it. But then when you working for somebody else, you kind of stepping up to their standard, you know?

The hardest lesson I learned from Lil Daddy, bro, was how to be okay with people not liking something. Most people like Lil Daddy. Most people comment and they like it. But when we did that podcast episode, it was so many people that had these various opinions where I was like, I don’t agree with what they’re saying. And not only do I not agree with what they’re saying, some of the synthesization that they’re saying is not true. Like, their conception of what happened, and what happened is not true. But, it’s art bro. So once you put it out, people are allowed to interact with it whether they like it or not. And I think because stand-up is so based in validity, if you got a joke bombing, you can riff, you can do whatever, you just want ‘em to laugh so bad.

And I felt like Lil Daddy was the first time I had to be secure in what I thought was funny. Where, like, we worked on this for months. We think this is good. We put it out and hope people think it’s good. Rather than getting like an immediate validation.

And what lessons have you learned where you’re not necessarily at the helm of the ship creatively, but working for someone and helping to serve their creative vision? Like on “Everybody’s Live with John Mulaney,” for example?

Being on a show like that, and seeing how everybody was working, kind of made this feel real, bro. I feel like it feels like such a pipe dream, and then it was like, “Oh, this really is a thing you can do as a career and have success in.” And that made me feel good.

And then the second thing I feel like I learned is that you can be an asset to people comedically, and knowing that about yourself can help you work way longer than [just] being obsessed with the thing you want to do.

Like, I’m very silly in a way. And I’m also very Southern. And that’s something that people don’t see as often. And so I can be almost be like a Pokemon for certain projects. I can be put in, and its a unique thing. I feel like “honing your voice,” I always thought was just for the audience, but it’s also for being useful on other people’s projects.

I think this question is personally important to me as someone who is just starting to pursue this: How do you balance how uncertain the industry is right now with trying to remain creatively pure and grounded?

I think you gotta have a level of belief that you gonna be straight. And I think the biggest thing, bro, is I have a firm belief that if you work hard at something long enough, and you’re good at it, and you’re good to it, it will be fine. It may not be fine today. And for me, it may not have been fine for seven, eight years. But eventually it will be.

I think sometimes people’s problems that they think is “outside of themselves,” is really themselves. You know what I’m saying? The industry can weigh back and forth. [But] if you got some heat, you got some heat, bruh.

Mandal’s top 5 Atlanta rap songs:
1. “Ova da Wudz” by Outkast
2. “Vica Versa” by Pastor Troy
3. “24’S” by T.I.
4. “Baby, Baby” by Kilo Alo
5. “Sneakin N Geekin” by Peewee Longway

HM: “Cre-A-Tine” by Cool Breeze; the absence of any Future or Young Thug songs was mentioned, and properly mourned.

Mandal recommends:
- Twizzlers Filled Twists
- The Worm “Honestly, I’m tryna bring back the worm … it’s a forgotten art form, bruh. It was a big defining moment of ourselves. Like, cats would do the worm, you’d be like, ‘Ooh, snap. He do the worm.’ That was a big personality back then.”
- The Chair Company “That show incredible, bro. That’s my favorite show right now. That junk so funny.”
- Miles Davis’ Sketches of Spain “I’ve heard plenty of Miles Davis albums. This junk, maybe it was on a soundtrack for a movie or something… it sound like movie music. I was listening to this yesterday. That junk hard, bro.”

This little white girl gon’ tell me she want to be an “influencer.” I said what is that little white girl? She said Shirley, its when you get paid to “post” on “social media.” I said why do they pay you? She said, “because you’re famous.” I said famous for what? She said, “for posting on social media.”

I said, “but ain’t you getting paid to post on social media because you’re famous?” She said yes. I said, “But you have get paid to post on social media first to get famous?” (Y’all know I don’t be on these “apps”. Lol.) She said, “Well, no Miss Shirley, you don’t have to get paid. You just have to get famous posting on social media first.” I said so you post on social media, then people pay you for posting on social media, then you get famous, causing them to then pay you even more, for being famous? She said yes. I said but what is it that you’re posting on social media in the first place to get famous? She gon’ say, “Well, kind of just your life.” Said it just like that. “Kind of just your life.” In that voice. I said baby, you want to be a con artist.

She said Miss Shirley what? I said yeah. The definition of a con artist is somebody who “persuades other people into believing something about themselves that is not true so that they can gain something financially.” Then she tried to say something and I cut her off and repeated what I had just said. “So that they can gain something financially.” Said it just like that. Financially.

I said little white girl you over here using social media and Instagram and brand deals and shit to make yourself look like a celebrity, to trick people into believing that you deserve fame and attention, so that you can get a dollar. And you oughta be spanked.

Said back in my day being a celebrity meant something. Meant you had talent. You wasn’t just famous for no reason. Wasn’t just using fame to exploit hard-working people willing to spend their hard-earned money on you. You worked all week to go see Gladys Knight. Not ‘cause she wore “LuLu,” but because she could sing her ass off. I said little white girl can you sing? She said “No.” I said what is your talent? She said, “I’m not really sure. I’m still trying to figure it out.” I said yeah, you oughta. Think about what you can give this world for one second in your life, instead of just take. That little white girl went home crying that day. She sure did.