There was a time when I was Michael Jackson fan (and it was bad…parents, check your kids’ symptoms because had there been a Stan Intervention show back then, I and my broke down single glove would have been hooping and hollering not to have my Right On posters of the Juicy Jheri Gloved One taken away), that I would have actually considered buying Michael Jackson presents. If Tootie made Jermaine the clay bust that got melted in the water by security (check your Facts of Life knowledge), then why wouldn’t I go the distance and buy, gulp, Michael’s children some Pampers and a rattle? The only problem I would have foreseen was possibly that some other woman got his Thriller juice instead of me.

However, I’m grown now. Puberty cured me of the Stan crazy (gave me some other issues but that’s another blog).

If you can explain why oh why these dumb ass superstars (sometimes I use that term LOOSELY - that means you Tiny the Escape hobbit) ask their fans to buy them baby shit on top of buying their broke ass CDs (mainstream music sucks enough to blow the Titanic back up to the surface nowadays), then I might even add you, Dear Stranger, to my wedding Evite list someday. If your 2.0 remix, Faux Idol, doesn’t generate enough cheddar to get your kids some Happy Meals and A&D ointment, I suggest you join the legions of heroes down at the job bank.

http://celebritysinglemoms.blogspot.com/search/label/Tiny%20(Tameka%20Cottle)

Rethink yourselves, please. Thanks.