Last night, self-anointed cultural icon Karrine “Superhead” Steffans stopped by the hotel room of Bow Wow — to watch Monday Night Football. There obviously isn’t a Don’t Do It, Reconsider, Read Some Literature On The Subject clause in his 106 & Park hosting contract.
“It’s not what you think it is, okay,” Bow Wow said with a laugh while speaking in a bathroom mirror as Karrine captured the confessional.
Karrine Steffans, in her latest Twitter rant, decided to play drunk and speak her mind. So, for today’s game I propose we play hide and go seek, and forget to do the second part.
Over the weekend Superhead posted tweets revealing she has filed for divorce from her current husband, hints at aborting a child for wreckless reasons, and that she plans to quit stunting on social media to go be a decent mother to her son.
Every time Karrine Steffans dwindles from our minds, thanks to Kim Kardashian being trashier than thou, she does something in hopes of sparking a bit of relevance just one more time.
This time Superhead is all over Twitter, married and all, hinting at a sexual romance with a rap star she had many moons ago. Want to guess which one it is?
Here’s a hint: Ruff! Ruff!
If there is a moral to be learned from Superhead’s latest Aesop fable its a simple one: Hoes will be hoes. Presented with limited commercial interruption, Karrine Steffan’s vagina monologue.
Sometimes, in relationships, the pleasure is all theirs. Alone, I am a superhero. With you, I am a mere mortal. You deplete me. I’m tired of being your upgrade. We are not equally yoked. You really deserve someone more basic. I’m tired of pretending your mediocracy is okay with me. I’m tired of pretending I don’t miss G650′s. I’m tied of pretending you’re not a burden. I’m tired of pretending I don’t deserve a fucking BOSS! I’m tired of you driving my car. Stop telling me you love me as if you’re doing me some sort of favor. I don’t need you to love me. I love me.
It would probably be a good idea to pause for a moment and acknowledge Karrine Steffan’s presence in Crunkland since I am more than confident that she has Google alerts set up for her name. You’re here, I’m pleased.
Stretching out her latest excrement, I mean, interval of relevancy in the same fashion she has done to her vagina in the past, the Vixen Diaries author stroked the keys to recall stroking a strap-on during a provocative shoot with photographer Terry Richardson, also sharing a Not Safe For Work behind the scenes video from her time in front of the camera.
Nigliterature.
So, there I was, out of my mind. I had to be to do what needed to be done.
Terry wanted nudes.
And, though I’d obviously been nude in public before, there was so much more on the line. After all, this is the man who has shot everyone who’s anyone, from GaGa to Lohan and beyond.
I wanted to be a part of that.
I wanted to do this opportunity justice.
I wanted to vomit.
But, instead, I strapped on my pretty pink cock and did what I do best. I put on a show and did my best to make Terry proud. I acted out. I rebelled against myself and the life I’d been leading, the life no one saw. I rebelled against that broken, battered, put upon housewife, who’d been shamed into believing no one would ever love her so she’d better just stay where she was. She’d better hide from the world and take her licks. She’d better take that belt he swung at her and the spit he hurled into her face. I was rebelling against the woman who believed she deserved it and that she’d never be desirable again.