Sometimes I do poems. Here's tha proof...
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Monday, November 16, 2009
Respect tha BOOM
Just last week, I had to lightweight bang on a negro about Boom. If you don't kno by now whut Boom is, honestly I don't kno whut to tell you aside from, "Get your life together." For now, I will say, Boom is about showing, not really about telling, and if you have been Boomed on (which likely, you have, at some point in your life) then you have a general idea of whut tha movement consists of. One of my very best girls and fellow Boomer, Tamara Blue wrote a really great poem about The Boom Girls and in light of last weeks incident with tha disrespectful male (who was no doubt jealous of our Booming abilities), and me coming dangerously close to punchin' another dude in his lying mouth, I wanted to share this goodness with ya'll.
If I had a sister
Her words would carry weight
Her style would be copied
And copied, and copied again
Paintings in her likeness
Would hang on walls in homes or buildings
All over the city, state and county
Fashions fly
Accessories exceptional
My sister would
Give me advice
And I would listen
Baring no resemblance
In facial features or structure
But still sisters like
Boom
Hugs so tight
you feel the magic in her arms
eye brows arched to perfection
With a bald head and Boom ring
Red hair, Blue hair, dread locs,
mo hawks, afros, weaves or wigs
A killer switch
In flats or 6 inch heels
praised for her way with words
her skills in the kitchen
and the bedroom
Never meek
Always sweet
But ready
at the drop of a dime
To Boom on a muthafucka if need be
Cuz sometimes
People need to be hit in they mouth
To remember that talking shit can hurt them
My sister would
have a degree
Be a single mother
A touring poet
A preschool teacher
An actor, activist, stylist,
A singer
A motivational speaker
A preacher
And a college drop out
My parents may have only had
One girl
And I may be there only daughter
But thank goodness
God has blessed me
With some sisters
If I had a sister
Her words would carry weight
Her style would be copied
And copied, and copied again
Paintings in her likeness
Would hang on walls in homes or buildings
All over the city, state and county
Fashions fly
Accessories exceptional
My sister would
Give me advice
And I would listen
Baring no resemblance
In facial features or structure
But still sisters like
Boom
Hugs so tight
you feel the magic in her arms
eye brows arched to perfection
With a bald head and Boom ring
Red hair, Blue hair, dread locs,
mo hawks, afros, weaves or wigs
A killer switch
In flats or 6 inch heels
praised for her way with words
her skills in the kitchen
and the bedroom
Never meek
Always sweet
But ready
at the drop of a dime
To Boom on a muthafucka if need be
Cuz sometimes
People need to be hit in they mouth
To remember that talking shit can hurt them
My sister would
have a degree
Be a single mother
A touring poet
A preschool teacher
An actor, activist, stylist,
A singer
A motivational speaker
A preacher
And a college drop out
My parents may have only had
One girl
And I may be there only daughter
But thank goodness
God has blessed me
With some sisters
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Monday, September 21, 2009
Learning to Leave White Women Alone
I'll admit, I am at times very immature. As a result, I'm still chuckling my ass off about tha whole Taylor Swift and Kanye fiasco, and needless to say entertained by all things relating to it. Tha shit is silly. Tha actual act of getting out of your seat to interrupt some one's speech and give your unwanted, un-asked for opinion, tha fact that it overshadowed so many much more important news stories, that it eclipsed tha original reason for Kanye being on Jay Leno's show to begin with, and that (white)folks are complaining now that Kanye is obviously, apparently racist -- wait -- because Kanye acted an ass, he's racist? Hold on. Let's explore this.
Now, I can't really tell you whut possessed him to hop his ass up out his seat and help himself to tha microphone in tha middle of Taylor's acceptance speech, but I can tell you this much -- Kanye ain't stupid. Bully? Yes. Coked up? Likely. Bitch? Quite possibly. Racist? No. Lemme tell you how I came to that conclusion... (aside from Taylor and Beyonce) Tha following ladies were nominated for that award.
Pink
Kelly Clarkson
Lady Gaga
and Katy Perry
Now, here come little saccharine ass, wholesome, darling, lovable Taylor, skippin' up on stage to accept her award...
I got a toothache just lookin' at her daggone picture. Based on visuals alone, do you get where I'm goin with this? You're smart, so of course you do. However, I'mma just go on ahead and say it for tha slow kids in tha class:
Kanye would have never in a million years gone up on stage and interrupted anybody but Taylor's speech! EVER!
Why?
'Cause he ain't stupid.
You and I kno that if he had been able to get tha nerve up to even get up out his seat and act like he wanted to show out while they were accepting their awards, Kelly Clarkson and Katy Perry would've had NO PARTS of that, Lady Gaga with her crazy ass woulda been liable to do a Mike Tyson on that brutha, and Pink -- OH, HONEY... Pink might've put her cigarette out on his forehead, raped, and shanked him.
Notice, all of these women are white. I guarantee you, race wasn't tha motivation behind this outburst. If anything, it was simply an opportunity for Kanye to talk. You kno that boy likes to just talk. Don't believe me? Just listen to tha last track on tha College Dropout album. He talks for 8 minutes and 45 seconds, damn near without taking any breaths.
So, now that we've got that out of tha way, let me get to tha part about this whole thing that disturbs me (and tha point of this whole blog). I read around tha web that after tha incident at tha VMAs, some folks up and lost they damn minds and started name callin'.
Joeben Buena tweeted, "So I just heard. Kanye West had a nigger moment last night at the VMAs." Jake Snider tweeted, "...Thank you Kanye for proving what I've been telling people forever. You're a nigger!"
Forreal? With tha strong "ER"?!?! We doin' it like that? Oh, okay. I shouldn't have to tell you that neither of these muthafuckas are black, nor is this beezie Kayla Larson from California's Bay Area, who tweeted, "Kanye West is a fucking NIGGER! It's guys like him that make you all look bad!"
Sorry, Kayla-boo... it's actually bitches like you who make "you all" look bad. Granted, none of these things would hav been uttered by any of tha above mentioned backward-ass, possibly inbred folk in an environment that didn't provide a level of anonymity and a great physical barrier. I would pay good money to see Jake and Joeben down at tha Baldwin Hills Crenshaw Plaza talkin' that much shit, or little Miss Larson in a room full black girls with that much to say. It would indeed be a tragedy. And yes, I believe in and advocate putting your hands on folks that obviously don't understand anything other than a good choking out.
Sidebar: We have told non-black folks for far too long that "nigga" (or any variation of tha word) is not a part of their vocabulary... and yet, they persist. Whut is one to do when reasoning and polite talk has failed? I think it's time to get Wayne Brady involved.
But, I digress...
Of course Kanye is partially responsible for some of this. Though he doesn't deserve to be called all out his name or have racial slurs and insults hurled at him, he had to have known that it might go in this direction. After all, this is whut happens when you don't learn to leave white women alone. Whether you're whistling at them, tryin to wife them, or in this case, wrestle a microphone out their hands so you can sing Beyonce's praises, white folk aren't going to just allow you to mistreat their precious vessels of life. Black man, you better appreciate that white woman -- while averting yo negro eyes. And speak soft, too. And call her, "Ma'am". And shuffle yo feet.
Interestingly enough, I didn't hear all this nigger talk when Chris Brown battered Rhianna. So basically, a black bitch can get her face busted open at tha hands of a black man and it's business as usual, but if he interrupts a precious white woman's little acceptance speech, it's lynchin' time. I see. Well, thank you America for telling me whut I already knew: Tha issue of race in America is similar to a smoldering fire -- though it may hav appeared to burn itself out and subside, it is still hot and ready to be rekindled, ignite, rage, and continue its path of destruction, if only given tha opportunity. Don't let this black pawn -- I mean, President fool you. Racism is still very much alive.
Now, I can't really tell you whut possessed him to hop his ass up out his seat and help himself to tha microphone in tha middle of Taylor's acceptance speech, but I can tell you this much -- Kanye ain't stupid. Bully? Yes. Coked up? Likely. Bitch? Quite possibly. Racist? No. Lemme tell you how I came to that conclusion... (aside from Taylor and Beyonce) Tha following ladies were nominated for that award.
Pink
Kelly Clarkson
Lady Gaga
and Katy Perry
Now, here come little saccharine ass, wholesome, darling, lovable Taylor, skippin' up on stage to accept her award...
I got a toothache just lookin' at her daggone picture. Based on visuals alone, do you get where I'm goin with this? You're smart, so of course you do. However, I'mma just go on ahead and say it for tha slow kids in tha class:
Kanye would have never in a million years gone up on stage and interrupted anybody but Taylor's speech! EVER!
Why?
'Cause he ain't stupid.
You and I kno that if he had been able to get tha nerve up to even get up out his seat and act like he wanted to show out while they were accepting their awards, Kelly Clarkson and Katy Perry would've had NO PARTS of that, Lady Gaga with her crazy ass woulda been liable to do a Mike Tyson on that brutha, and Pink -- OH, HONEY... Pink might've put her cigarette out on his forehead, raped, and shanked him.
Notice, all of these women are white. I guarantee you, race wasn't tha motivation behind this outburst. If anything, it was simply an opportunity for Kanye to talk. You kno that boy likes to just talk. Don't believe me? Just listen to tha last track on tha College Dropout album. He talks for 8 minutes and 45 seconds, damn near without taking any breaths.
So, now that we've got that out of tha way, let me get to tha part about this whole thing that disturbs me (and tha point of this whole blog). I read around tha web that after tha incident at tha VMAs, some folks up and lost they damn minds and started name callin'.
Joeben Buena tweeted, "So I just heard. Kanye West had a nigger moment last night at the VMAs." Jake Snider tweeted, "...Thank you Kanye for proving what I've been telling people forever. You're a nigger!"
Forreal? With tha strong "ER"?!?! We doin' it like that? Oh, okay. I shouldn't have to tell you that neither of these muthafuckas are black, nor is this beezie Kayla Larson from California's Bay Area, who tweeted, "Kanye West is a fucking NIGGER! It's guys like him that make you all look bad!"
Sorry, Kayla-boo... it's actually bitches like you who make "you all" look bad. Granted, none of these things would hav been uttered by any of tha above mentioned backward-ass, possibly inbred folk in an environment that didn't provide a level of anonymity and a great physical barrier. I would pay good money to see Jake and Joeben down at tha Baldwin Hills Crenshaw Plaza talkin' that much shit, or little Miss Larson in a room full black girls with that much to say. It would indeed be a tragedy. And yes, I believe in and advocate putting your hands on folks that obviously don't understand anything other than a good choking out.
Sidebar: We have told non-black folks for far too long that "nigga" (or any variation of tha word) is not a part of their vocabulary... and yet, they persist. Whut is one to do when reasoning and polite talk has failed? I think it's time to get Wayne Brady involved.
But, I digress...
Of course Kanye is partially responsible for some of this. Though he doesn't deserve to be called all out his name or have racial slurs and insults hurled at him, he had to have known that it might go in this direction. After all, this is whut happens when you don't learn to leave white women alone. Whether you're whistling at them, tryin to wife them, or in this case, wrestle a microphone out their hands so you can sing Beyonce's praises, white folk aren't going to just allow you to mistreat their precious vessels of life. Black man, you better appreciate that white woman -- while averting yo negro eyes. And speak soft, too. And call her, "Ma'am". And shuffle yo feet.
Interestingly enough, I didn't hear all this nigger talk when Chris Brown battered Rhianna. So basically, a black bitch can get her face busted open at tha hands of a black man and it's business as usual, but if he interrupts a precious white woman's little acceptance speech, it's lynchin' time. I see. Well, thank you America for telling me whut I already knew: Tha issue of race in America is similar to a smoldering fire -- though it may hav appeared to burn itself out and subside, it is still hot and ready to be rekindled, ignite, rage, and continue its path of destruction, if only given tha opportunity. Don't let this black pawn -- I mean, President fool you. Racism is still very much alive.
Friday, September 18, 2009
Is It Just Me...?
Is it just me, or is crashing somebody's performance slightly more unforgivable than interrupting their acceptance speech? I'm just sayin.
Well, I just wanna go on record saying that both Random Acts of Foolishness blessed my soul in ways that I cannot express. Thank you, Lil' Mama and Kanye for helping me hav tha best week ever.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Nigga Please (tha Latino Edition)
This week's Nigga Please Award goes to my landlord, who, after tha cashier's check for my rent apparently went undelivered, thanks to tha good people at USPS, called me and suggested that perhaps I should, (A) Just giv him a whole other rent check, and if I couldn't afford it, (B) BORROW tha money to giv him some rent that I done already paid. Uh, that'll be a firm "No", amigo.
First off, who's brilliant idea was it for me to giv him cashier's checks every month? HIS. I had to inform him, that unfortunately, cashier's checks are very similar to cash, in that once that money is withdrawn from my account, it's GONE. I also informed him that had he allowed me to simply write him a personal check, like normal people do, when he never got it, I could've put a stop payment on it and written him another one, quick, fast, and, in a hurry. Basically, your bad, darling.
Second, tha United States Postal Service is good for mis-delivering or just flat out losing mail. Unfortunately, I sent my rent first class mail (which means I just put it in an envelope, slapped a forever stamp on it and handed it to tha mail guy at my job), therefore, there's no way to track it. I trust USPS to deliver my mail to me and tha rest of tha good people of tha World, but sometimes it just doesn't happen like that. Hell, my neighborhood mail man loves givin' me other people's mail. Just tha other week, I got a Highlights Magazine in my mailbox that belongs to a little boy at tha other end of tha block. It happens. Landlord, come get your rent.
Third: When he called me on Friday night to tell me he hadn't gotten tha check in tha mail, I specifically asked him to call me tha next day if it had not be delivered by then. Did he call me? Of course not. Did he call me Sunday? Nope. Did he call me all day Monday, when maybe I could hav investigated further or talked to my bank about a possible solution? Hell naw. So, I assumed everything had worked out and maybe it had magically appeared in his mailbox or been brought over by a neighbor who had received it accidentally. This man called me on Monday evening, close to 6 pm. No darling, don't ever do it like that.
Then he tried to hit me with tha, "I can't pay tha note on my property without it! Really? You own tha apartment building I liv in, as well as your own residence, and I think another rental property and you mean to tell me that my little bit of rent is actually keeping you from paying your mortgage? In tha words of Souljah Girl, "YAAAAAAAAH! GET OUT MY FACE!" On top of all of that, why he try to say, "Tha mortgage is due today!" OHHHHHH, FORREAL?!?! So you just gone lie like that??? And if it is indeed true that your mortgage is due today, guess whut? YOUR BAD. Do not wait till tha day that some shit is due to come talkin' to me about how you need tha money. I asked you to call me SATURDAY. If in tha event that ONE muthafucka don't pay they rent one month, you can't pay your mortgage... YOU don't need to be owning an apartment building. Get your life together, boo.
I'm putting a stop payment on tha stupid missing cashier's check. I hav to fill out paperwork, sign some shit, get it notarized, send it back to tha bank and then it will take a mandatory 90 days from tha date on which tha check was originally issued (*cough, cough* FUCKERY!) before they refund tha money back to my account. Then, and only then, will I be able to pay him his rent for August... for tha second time.
Upon speaking with my Landlord today and once again making it clear that Bank of America would provide tha funds to pay him on November 4th and no, I would not be borrowing money from anyone to cover tha cost of tha missing check, he seemed to relax. I attribute his change in attitude to tha prayer I sent up to God last night, asking that tha situation be resolved, that I be shown favor, and mostly that I wouldn't hav to end up
slapping this man. My God is an awesome God.
First off, who's brilliant idea was it for me to giv him cashier's checks every month? HIS. I had to inform him, that unfortunately, cashier's checks are very similar to cash, in that once that money is withdrawn from my account, it's GONE. I also informed him that had he allowed me to simply write him a personal check, like normal people do, when he never got it, I could've put a stop payment on it and written him another one, quick, fast, and, in a hurry. Basically, your bad, darling.
Second, tha United States Postal Service is good for mis-delivering or just flat out losing mail. Unfortunately, I sent my rent first class mail (which means I just put it in an envelope, slapped a forever stamp on it and handed it to tha mail guy at my job), therefore, there's no way to track it. I trust USPS to deliver my mail to me and tha rest of tha good people of tha World, but sometimes it just doesn't happen like that. Hell, my neighborhood mail man loves givin' me other people's mail. Just tha other week, I got a Highlights Magazine in my mailbox that belongs to a little boy at tha other end of tha block. It happens. Landlord, come get your rent.
Third: When he called me on Friday night to tell me he hadn't gotten tha check in tha mail, I specifically asked him to call me tha next day if it had not be delivered by then. Did he call me? Of course not. Did he call me Sunday? Nope. Did he call me all day Monday, when maybe I could hav investigated further or talked to my bank about a possible solution? Hell naw. So, I assumed everything had worked out and maybe it had magically appeared in his mailbox or been brought over by a neighbor who had received it accidentally. This man called me on Monday evening, close to 6 pm. No darling, don't ever do it like that.
Then he tried to hit me with tha, "I can't pay tha note on my property without it! Really? You own tha apartment building I liv in, as well as your own residence, and I think another rental property and you mean to tell me that my little bit of rent is actually keeping you from paying your mortgage? In tha words of Souljah Girl, "YAAAAAAAAH! GET OUT MY FACE!" On top of all of that, why he try to say, "Tha mortgage is due today!" OHHHHHH, FORREAL?!?! So you just gone lie like that??? And if it is indeed true that your mortgage is due today, guess whut? YOUR BAD. Do not wait till tha day that some shit is due to come talkin' to me about how you need tha money. I asked you to call me SATURDAY. If in tha event that ONE muthafucka don't pay they rent one month, you can't pay your mortgage... YOU don't need to be owning an apartment building. Get your life together, boo.
I'm putting a stop payment on tha stupid missing cashier's check. I hav to fill out paperwork, sign some shit, get it notarized, send it back to tha bank and then it will take a mandatory 90 days from tha date on which tha check was originally issued (*cough, cough* FUCKERY!) before they refund tha money back to my account. Then, and only then, will I be able to pay him his rent for August... for tha second time.
Upon speaking with my Landlord today and once again making it clear that Bank of America would provide tha funds to pay him on November 4th and no, I would not be borrowing money from anyone to cover tha cost of tha missing check, he seemed to relax. I attribute his change in attitude to tha prayer I sent up to God last night, asking that tha situation be resolved, that I be shown favor, and mostly that I wouldn't hav to end up
slapping this man. My God is an awesome God.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Tha Great Tree Masacre of '09
If ever there was a time to quote Joni Mitchell, I'm pretty sure this is it.
They took all the trees
Put em in a tree museum
And they charged the people
A dollar and a half just to see em
However, let me say, I kno whut I've got before it's gone and don't you try to come take it away or I might hav to get rowdy.
This morning, I was abruptly snatched up outta my sleep by a sound that can only be described as a violent, motorized grinding. No, actually it sounded like my apartment was being eaten by a big ass blender. Better yet, it sounded like tha whole World was being consumed by a tornado of chainsaws -- concrete, buildings, trees and all. Well, I was right about tha trees and sort or right about tha chainsaws. When I went to my living room window and looked out, I could see tha Inglewood City worker men cutting away at this huge tree in front of my building. Okay. Trimming. It happens. Good city. Trim your trees. At 7:30 in tha morning, tho? Is that really necessary? Whutever. I went to get ready for work.
After finishing part of my morning ritual, I wandered back over to my living room window to see whut looked like some sort of giant grotesque stone hand, protruding from tha ground, clawing at tha sky. Clearly, a lot more than "trimming" had occurred. Every bit of this poor tree's foliage was gone and all that was left was trunk and branches. Ugly. I didn't want them to leave that monstrosity in front of my window, but it didn't entirely occur to me that they were going to completely cut a perfectly good tree down. Why would anybody do that? Duh.
Well, folks, I returned home from work to see that that's exactly whut they did. But they didn't stop at tha tree directly in front of my apartment. They kept going all tha way down tha block. Three big beautiful trees had been reduced to stumps and roots.
In tha middle of summer Inglewood? Really? And exactly whut purpose did this tree masacre serve? Does my neighborhood look better now? Can tha people that reside on my block now do something that we couldn't do before? Who's gonna breathe a sigh of relief or sleep more soundly tonight because finally, all those bothersome trees are gone?
Dumb. Asses.
Meanwhile, I've called several times to request that a stop sign be placed at tha deadly ass intersection at tha end of my block. Do I hav my stop sign, yet? Take a guess.
Great verbiage such as "livid", "angry", and even "pissed tha fuck off", don't do a good job of describing how mad I am. I can't quite articulate how vigorously I would like to slap tha individual(s) who came up with tha brilliant idea to chop down these trees and leave my street naked and scarred. And how much money in labor and machinery did they spend in tha destruction and disposal of these trees? But they can't come and put up a couple of stop signs to prevent me or someone else from dying at tha corner a few yards away?
Tha war path is whut I'm on... and you kno I'm familiar with and hav no problems goin down that road. I'm about to giv tha City of Inglewood THEE BUSINESS. Watch.
Granted, city personnel is often good for very little. However, if they can answer their phones (which they are successful at, most times), and if they can check their voicemail, then I'm pretty sure I'm about to get some results, cause they're about to get tired of hearing my voice. I'm calling everyday (sometimes several times a day, depending on how I crazy I feel) until I gets my muthafuckin stop sign. And I won't stop till I get it.
If, God forbid, I were to die tomorrow, I would call tha Inglewood City Public Works Hotline from my grave. I'm like tha Terminator. I'm like Bad Boy in tha 90's. And furthermore, "This mind, this body, and this voice cannot be stifled", word to Fiona Apple.
For now, I've titled this situation that I'm about to temporarily obsess over "Operation Avenge tha Trees". It might very well turn into an adventure. Needless to say, I'll keep ya'll updated as my sanity wears away and the fuckery escalates. It will.
They took all the trees
Put em in a tree museum
And they charged the people
A dollar and a half just to see em
However, let me say, I kno whut I've got before it's gone and don't you try to come take it away or I might hav to get rowdy.
This morning, I was abruptly snatched up outta my sleep by a sound that can only be described as a violent, motorized grinding. No, actually it sounded like my apartment was being eaten by a big ass blender. Better yet, it sounded like tha whole World was being consumed by a tornado of chainsaws -- concrete, buildings, trees and all. Well, I was right about tha trees and sort or right about tha chainsaws. When I went to my living room window and looked out, I could see tha Inglewood City worker men cutting away at this huge tree in front of my building. Okay. Trimming. It happens. Good city. Trim your trees. At 7:30 in tha morning, tho? Is that really necessary? Whutever. I went to get ready for work.
After finishing part of my morning ritual, I wandered back over to my living room window to see whut looked like some sort of giant grotesque stone hand, protruding from tha ground, clawing at tha sky. Clearly, a lot more than "trimming" had occurred. Every bit of this poor tree's foliage was gone and all that was left was trunk and branches. Ugly. I didn't want them to leave that monstrosity in front of my window, but it didn't entirely occur to me that they were going to completely cut a perfectly good tree down. Why would anybody do that? Duh.
Well, folks, I returned home from work to see that that's exactly whut they did. But they didn't stop at tha tree directly in front of my apartment. They kept going all tha way down tha block. Three big beautiful trees had been reduced to stumps and roots.
In tha middle of summer Inglewood? Really? And exactly whut purpose did this tree masacre serve? Does my neighborhood look better now? Can tha people that reside on my block now do something that we couldn't do before? Who's gonna breathe a sigh of relief or sleep more soundly tonight because finally, all those bothersome trees are gone?
Dumb. Asses.
Meanwhile, I've called several times to request that a stop sign be placed at tha deadly ass intersection at tha end of my block. Do I hav my stop sign, yet? Take a guess.
Great verbiage such as "livid", "angry", and even "pissed tha fuck off", don't do a good job of describing how mad I am. I can't quite articulate how vigorously I would like to slap tha individual(s) who came up with tha brilliant idea to chop down these trees and leave my street naked and scarred. And how much money in labor and machinery did they spend in tha destruction and disposal of these trees? But they can't come and put up a couple of stop signs to prevent me or someone else from dying at tha corner a few yards away?
Tha war path is whut I'm on... and you kno I'm familiar with and hav no problems goin down that road. I'm about to giv tha City of Inglewood THEE BUSINESS. Watch.
Granted, city personnel is often good for very little. However, if they can answer their phones (which they are successful at, most times), and if they can check their voicemail, then I'm pretty sure I'm about to get some results, cause they're about to get tired of hearing my voice. I'm calling everyday (sometimes several times a day, depending on how I crazy I feel) until I gets my muthafuckin stop sign. And I won't stop till I get it.
If, God forbid, I were to die tomorrow, I would call tha Inglewood City Public Works Hotline from my grave. I'm like tha Terminator. I'm like Bad Boy in tha 90's. And furthermore, "This mind, this body, and this voice cannot be stifled", word to Fiona Apple.
For now, I've titled this situation that I'm about to temporarily obsess over "Operation Avenge tha Trees". It might very well turn into an adventure. Needless to say, I'll keep ya'll updated as my sanity wears away and the fuckery escalates. It will.
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