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Violent J's Weekly Freekly — 2004, February, 13th

But the real freshness happened after wrestling last week in Nashville. Me, Ry-Ry, 2 Tuff Tony, and Corporal Robinson all went out to find a tittie bar in Nashville. Yes, it seems like we go to a lot of tittie bars but that's only because we do. Where else can 3 or 4 scrubs go and hang out at midnight on a Wednesday night? I don't know... me and my boys just ain’t the type to go out dancing. Fuck that. I'd rather watch some chick's titties dance and try to score a bag of fuckin' ganz outta the place. That's more our style. We usually go to Deja Vu, because they usually show some love so that's cool. But we felt we might be lookin' like weirdoes if we show up there again, our third Wednesday night in a row, you know what I'm sayin’? We ain’t tryna be no tittie dancers regular customers. So we better go to a different one this time. So we told Gale to keep drivin' and take us to another tittie bar. And she took us to the next big one in town. But this fuckin' lame spot had the lame as fuck-ass, rule of "Tuck Ya Chains". In other words, "No charms and gold pieces" dress code rule. Fuck that. We stay reppin' the hatchet. So it was on to the next tittie bar. Only problem was it was gettin' late, so the next one no matter what, had to do.

This place looked like a hillbilly moonshine shack. It was so small it looked like a tiny photo mart place or a security guard’s parking lot booth. It was crazy. We piled into the tiny place. The bouncer had to stand outside in the parking lot so that we could all fit in. Not really, but you know. It was pretty fuckin' small. But the real fine spectacle was all up inside.

Truth be told we seen them all before, so right away we knew what kind of joint this was. This place was your average, heavy, heavy, southern, red neck, sluggish, truck-ass drivin,' crack whore, ghetto, shitty, tittie bar.

CRACK HEADS. Too many to comprehend. Everywhere we looked, fuckin' crackheads everywhere. Dancing and asking for money, from ninjas who weren’t even watchin' them. Crackheads on poles, up at the bar, lap dancing on old pervs. They were everywhere. It must've been Slutty Zombie night. It looked like the bar scene from Star Wars up in there. Fuckin' crazy-as-hell ugly crack whores with aids drippin’ off their nipples. Me and the guys took a seat in the middle of the floor to peep the creep show. I ordered a drink. I left a four-dollar tip. The crackhead waitress tried to kiss me for it. I was like "WHOA... SLOW DOWN...” she said you’re so sweet, I’LL BE RIGHT BACK. And she was right back, every fuckin' two minutes or less for the rest of the night. "Need more? Anything else? How about another?" That bitch was back like a stray rat hungry for more cheese.

Then out came "THE ALIEN". That’s what we called it. Tall as fuck... 6 '6” at least. Skinny as fuck, and absolutely, positively, tittieless. With nipples and all, her titties looked like mosquito bites at best. She was a mother fuckin' Alien creature dancing at a tittie bar. I was stupidfounded. It was dancing and swaying its big tall-ass body around the stage, flailing its long ass crooked spider arms. Scaring the fuckin' straight-up hell outta my life. It was horrifying. Alien Thing was so big and tall and thin, she looked like a giant Jack from Nightmare Before Christmas, only asshole naked. I started to scream but I bit down on my knuckles instead, in sheer horror. The tall creature then moved over to the left side of the stage. Dancing the whole time and lookin' like a big-ass daddy long legs walkin' along towards us. I couldn’t tell if it was a male or female. I mean I could tell it was supposed to be a chick, but I didn't know if she really was or not. If it was a chick, where the fuck were the titties? And who the fuck ever told her that she should dance naked for tips? Who ever did probably meant at a zoo. I was in terror as she approached me from fresh off the stage, no lie Juggalos, she approached me! And she then suddenly, no lie, AHHHH, jumped up on my mother fuckin’ lap facing me, with her knees on my legs. AUGH!! GET OFF ME AHGH! I jumped the fuck up, "Like HEYYY MAN What the FUCK MAN." She or he, or whatever the fuck it was got pissed, "What’s wrong with you!" it screamed. I had to explain to this fuckin' Alien being, that it had startled me and that I was not interested in a private dance with it of any sort. Then she flew back to the dressing room area and crawled back into her giant pod.

Another crack headed red neck beast came up to us, (from right up out of this crazy-ass movie it felt like we were watching), and asked us all at once, "Who wants a fuckin' dance?" Her lips held big-ass scabs on them from the burning of a crack pipe. She looked to me like she was a 40 or 50 year old witch tryna sell her nasty old whiskey ass on any fool that wants it. I Looked at Corporal Robinson, who is a happily married man and was only at the tittie bar for security reasons, and I asked him, "How about it Corp, you want this crack beast with butt herpes dancing on your face for ya? How about it?" He was straight without that. We all were. “NO!” we told her. Then she just said, "Well how about a tip then? At least give the pretty lady a tip?"

"A Tip?" I said, "Well when you see this pretty lady you're speak of, give her this tip… Always bet on a three-legged ninja"

The tittie bar that we were at somewhere in the outbacks of deep southern Nashville Tennessee was home to some of America's finest crackheads and junkies. It was truly the shit just checkin’ out life in the Nashville underworld right quick. And most of the girls there were doing anything you wanted in the back. Everything costed $100 bucks we were told. That’s not a bad deal, except for the fact that the chick gots heroin tracks all down her body and her neden is blew out like a grenade hit it. If you don't mind that freshness, this bar was for you. And there were a few people there, loving every minute of it. Even the crazy Alien, half man-woman, scored that night, with a nice, old, old, old Hermaphrodite. We left the place and headed back to our downtown Nashville Hotel. Nashville is a great place, it really is, but just like here in Detroit, there's an underworld to the city. We'll be back to explore the rest of it, every Wednesday for a while at least.

That's it y’all. I'm outta fresh news. And I did my best of making something outta nothing. All we have been doing really is heavy, heavy studio nonstop. However, I do have some possible freshness news for ya.

The mother fuckin’ one and only, Tech N9ne, just might be joining Dark Lotus on the National "Black Rain" tour in April, cross your fingers and hope to die.

Violent Wear is still in effect and next week, not this week but next week, we will be unleashing three brand new, probably too fuckin’ expensive, but fresh-ass styles of shirts.

1. The "RED RUM" shirt - This is a fresh-ass, high-quality shirt that I designed in the theme of old school Esham. It's a blood red shirt with big, tall, black fuzzy letters on the front that say "REDRUM" (that's MURDER backwards for you slower ninjas). And on the back, real small at the top it has a black Hatchet Logo and it says Esham underneath it, real small. This Esham shirt ain't your typical "swag" style Esham shirt. It's really just a fresh shirt that happens to be in the theme of Esham. It's fresh. I also have a Twiztid theme shirt coming in the weeks to come, as well as a Blaze shirt, a Zug Izland shirt, a fuckin’ Rude Boy shirt, and you can even peep us out in the brand new, Violent Wear ABK theme shirt on TNA Wrestling next week. That’s when we're gonna premier it, all fresh style. Just wait and see how fresh that ABK shirt looks. (Once again, don’t buy the shit if you can’t. I ain’t doing this "Violent Wear" shit to get paid. It’s just fresh to design unusual shirts, that actually look fresh and turn heads and then actually have people wear them. Even though they don’t say ICP on them or whatever. That’s just a fresh feeling to be able to pull that off and have people like your shit. My shirts are the shit. Shaggy’s got his own shirts comin' too. He says he's gonna call his shirts "Shaggy Waggys". It’s gonna be the shit. I understand that shit cost money though, and that’s why I'm sayin' fuck it. If you can’t, don't buy the shit. I'm only tellin' y’all about them because this is what we got going on.)

2. The "Violent Wear Logo" Shirt - This shirt just has the "Violent Wear" Logo on it. It’s for straight up pimps that pimp hoes in and outta they clothes. It’s a black high-quality shirt, with a fuzzy, big red "Violent Wear" logo across the chest. It’s also got a matching black and red gangsta scully hat. This shirt is fresher than one can handle. You and your homie should both buy this one and take turns wearing it or something. Or maybe wear it both at the same time. Just don’t Hulkster rip that bitch off, or you'd be wasting like $30 fuckin' bucks. It's that dope, to me it is anyway. It’s probably just a stale rip off to you, but I like it.

3. The "Real Serial Killa" Jersey - This sweet lil piece of freshness is extra fresh. This high-quality jersey comes in a Smoky Dark Grey color, naa, colour... yeah, that sounds fresher. It's got some fresh-ass freshness to it. It features a giant patch sewn onto the front that features the character drawings of several, famous, real life serial killers such as Dahmer, Gacy, Ramirez, and more. Including Shaggy, who’s face for some reason is pictured right along with the rest of the real killers and murderers on this fresh-ass shirt. This shirt is just a lil tribute to the Shaggy one, my boy and yours, brother Shaggy 2 Dope.

Enough of my pointless babbling. Sorry if my Weekly Freekly wasn’t filled with too much flavor, but that's because I'm saving it all for the next one. I'm out y’all, peace. Much Love to the Hatchet Rydas Car Club, Roddy Hogan - the Carnival is riding with you, you know that. The fresh websites that put us down... hotlines, crews and clicks… federations, gangs, and posses. Think about it y’all, life is fuckin' good. I don't give a fuck how bad you got it, life is fresh. It's an adventure. Get up, get out and get somethin'. Much love to Big Ed in Miami, and Fish N Gritz, Chris and the rest, much love to Paris and - Juggalos you need to go to that, unless YOU scured... Much love to TNA, Scotty DeMoore, Jeremy Borash, Mike "The Fuckin' Bomb" Tenay, cool-ass homies that come out to TNA live every week, The Nashville and travelin' Juggalos, Corporal Robinson (who is down as fuck for the Juggalo cause, believe it...) 2 Tuff Tony my fuckin' homie... Shouts out to the mother fuckin' LOTUUUUUUUS, it's our turn at bat again. Fuck the world; we slap it outta orbit like a wiffel ball. Much love to Alex and Joey who I went and seen "Monster" with tonight... Much love to my fuckin' brother Rob who I love and his boys, and them ninjas holdin' it down across seas... Much fuckin' love to Sabu, Vampiro (I miss you dog). Much love to the world we stand on. Fuck that I love this bitch. I take the good with the bad. WRITE YOUR HISTORY YOU FUCKS, CREATE YOUR ADVENTURES TODAY, AND MAKE YOUR STORYS HAPPEN NOW. I'm out. Esham what up! I'm outta this piece. Much love to Lavel, and Twiztid Shop ninjas. I'm outta this bitch. Peace Rover, Feliepe and Parky. Peace Juggalos. If anybody is still reading this somehow, I'm sorry I ended this bitch with shout out credits-album style, but then again, I ain't sorry. I can end this however the fuck I want. And I wanna end it like this. Juggalos for Eternity MOTHA FUCKA!!!

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