Tuesday, September 20th, 2011 at 2:53 pm
Rick Ross just killing it with his commentary on relationships. Bang a bunch of broads out until Ross hits such Boss status that he has no option but to wife one up. Also DO NOT send dick pics. Not a good reflection of someone’s character. This is an excerpt from a dope GQ feature Devin Friedman wrote.
“I’m single,” he said. “I’m enjoying life. Being a boss. Like all true bosses, one day you gotta give it up.”
One day. But not today. Today he’s still the Boss. Or, as he says it, the Bawse. He also calls himself Rozay and often refers to himself as a don. Like this evening at Houston’s, one of his favorite restaurants. After he finished eating a dinner of fried cheese bread, artichoke dip, roasted chicken with sides, and three pieces of Key lime pie (two of them were to go; come on, son), he pushed his plates away and said, “That’s how you gotta eat. You gotta eat like a don.” He has a habit of handing down proclamations like that about the way bosses should live. He likes to visit the Louis Vuitton store at the Lenox mall when he is in town and has some downtime, and this afternoon, as we drove there, the topic of former congressman Anthony Weiner came up. Ross had never heard of him. He became curious as he learned the story. Some passages from a leaked Facebook chat were quoted.
“How the fuck that shit get out?” he wanted to know. He was told that Weiner tweeted a picture of his dick to someone.
“Chicks send me pictures,” Ross said. “And I appreciate it! I love all of them. But I don’t do that shit. I’m the Boss.” He shook his head, his expression hidden behind his candy-apple-red-framed aviator sunglasses. “Real niggas don’t send dick flicks.”
Also, while I know have never doubted Rozay’s snacking prowess, the point was really solidified in the article.
Ross’s kitchen cabinets are filled with rations that could last six months. One is entirely stocked with Ortega taco fixings, another with cans of Manwich, another with six-packs of Yoo-hoo, another with bags of Halloween-size candy bars. I try not to go back to the supersize bag of Butterfingers, but it’s inevitable. I think: “No wonder Rick Ross is fat if he smokes this shit all the time and has cupboards full of Butterfingers.” But Ross is not eating the Butterfingers. He is secreted away in his chambers with his non-girlfriend/masseuse.