The postal service really needs to get its act together. I got more letters intended for Santa.
I just need one of these basketball wives to be, well, a wife. You know. Married. To an actual ballplayer. I know it might be asking too much since black love is deader than disco. Nonetheless, Vh1 is not going for my latest proposal of a name change to “Baller Baby Mamas.” Apparently they have standards. I know, right? Who knew? (Not Flavor Flav.)
Creator/producer Basketball Wives
Please make my little brother go away. He’s ruining my rap career.
Dear Santa Claus,
I’m writing you this holiday season in hope that you would solve two problems for me. Neither prayer nor Oprah has worked. So, I thought I’d try you. 1. I need Aaron McGruder to disappear. 2. I need black feminists to be banned from blogging. I’d do the latter myself, but I can’t afford to buy Blogger and WordPress, and Oprah won’t do it for me.
By the way, if you got a letter from someone claiming to be me asking for a boyfriend, please disregard it. That person is an imposter.
Jesus is the reason for the season.
Whatup, fam? Chillin’, chillin’. Listen, I ain’t got much time because I’m too busy being a musical genius, and everything. But still I wanted to holler. I know I’m on your naughty list–again. That’s cool. I prolly deserve it.
Really what I wanted to say was, the Santa Maria was one of the greatest “Santas” of all times. That’s it. Also, if you could make sure every critic who didn’t give my album a good review also gets on the naughty list, it would be greatly appreciated, fam.
Anyway, I gotta track down the Little Drummer Boy. I need him for a remix.
Please put coal in the stockings of the following people:
1 Steve Harvey
2 The editors of Essence (see: Harvey, Steve)
3 John Mayer (yeah, still)
5 Sherri Shepherd
6 And dudes who do this.
You know what? Nevermind. We’ll do it ourselves.