Combat Jack With Today's Mathematics

I'm still on Spring Break Bitches!!! However, and as promised, here's a throwback of my world famous, award winning blog series recapturing my Top 5 gulliest moments I experienced first hand in the music industry, shit you won't hear about anywhere else on the whole effin planet but here!
PREVIOUSLY: #5, #4, #3

Courtesy of Byron Crawford

Tragedy Khadafi is a good dude [||]. He doesn’t, however, get the recognition he deserves. He was a junior member of the legendary Juice Crew, he mentored and actually named Havoc (of “Mobb Deep” fame), he discovered CNN (Capone –N- Noriega) and was fully responsible for their classic underground LP The War Report. He was also featured on the only diss record fired back against 2pac and the Dogg Pound during the East-West coast beef (“LA, LA,” also featuring Mobb Deep and C-N-N).

So the year is 1999 and Trag is feeling a bit down (cause life has a way of kicking a nigga’s ass every now and then). To cheer him up, I suggest that we head to a party that Gorilla Pimp Sean Combs is throwing cross-town. We get to the joint and are ushered into the V.I.P. section which looked great. The walls were draped with some velvety red curtains and the chicks were definitely on some video ho pop off material. Around midnight, Diddy steps in the club and decides to open up the bar in our section. Trag and I go apeshit and start throwing drinks back like we had been stranded in the Sahara desert for 15 days with no canteen in sight.

After an hour of doing some serious man-style drinking, Puff ups the ante (along with some other baller crews chilling in the cut) and decides its time to treat the crowd to bottles of Cristal. This was a few years before Jay-Z said it wasn't cool to drank Cristal no no'. Word. The wait staff starts bringing out mad ice buckets stocked with yellow bottles and it’s on. Almost everyone in the area has access to at least 2.5 of their own bottles of the fine bubbly. Everything is going real perfecto, chicks looking and smelling good, dancing, trees is burning, niggas is all types of happy with no types of gun talk in the air, the dj (I think it was Flex) is spinning hit after hit after blood clot hit, we’re partying like it’s, well, um, 1999 and Trag is smiling [||].

Anyways, after downing our respective second bottles of Cris, Trag pulls me to the side with a real serious and concerned look in his eye and asks me where the men’s room is. [||]. In my blissfully drunken state, I explain that it's past the V.I.P. ropes, through the dance floor (jam packed with about 700 sweaty dancing patrons), up the crowded narrow ass stairs, right behind the capacity filled lounge, where finally, there’s probably a line with a wait time of about 10-15 minutes. He processes the information and says “cool.” A few minutes later, there’s like one unattended bottle of Cris left, and from the corner of my eye, I spot Trag grabbing it along with the effin ice bucket, greedy ass motherfucker!