DISGRACELAND - Cardi B: Felony Assault

Episode Date: July 9, 2019

Cardi B is one of the biggest artists on the planet and one of the most successful female hip hop artists of all time. She is accused of two counts of felony assault stemming from a fight in a Queens strip club. Her public brawl with rival Nicki Minaj is well documented, as is her rise from the Bronx to superstardom via strip clubs and reality television. It’s the stuff of legend, as is her big personality and unique form of feminism. Her trial looms, but has Cardi B already committed and admitted to a crime that is possibly far worse? To see the full list of contributors, see the show notes at www.disgracelandpod.com. This episode was originally published on July 9, 2019.   Purchase Tickets for Disgraceland's Special Live Stream Event on Oct. 9, 2024: https://www.moment.co/disgraceland/disgraceland-we-are-not-alone-music-wont-save-us-but-tom-delonge-might   To listen to Disgraceland ad free and get access to a monthly exclusive episode, weekly bonus content and more, become a Disgraceland All Access member at disgracelandpod.com/membership.   Visit www.disgracelandpod.com/merch to see the latest Disgraceland merch!   Sign up for our newsletter and get the inside dirt on events, merch and other awesomeness - GET THE NEWSLETTER Follow Jake and DISGRACELAND: Instagram YouTube X (formerly Twitter)  Facebook Fan GroupSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

This is exactly right. Double Elvis. Disgraceland is a production of Double Elvis. The stories about Hood Hip Hop Queen Cardi B are insane. She admitted to drugging and robbing men to bankroll her rise from the streets. She allegedly ordered the beatdown of a strip club bartender to scare off her man. She definitely brawled with Nikki Minaj at a prestigious gala event, named after the liquor she loved and proudly sporting the signature red of the blood's street

gang, Cardi, short for Bacardi, became America's biggest celebrity stripper and hip-hop sensation through the sheer force of personality. She took over reality TV, became one of the most successful female rappers of all time, all on the back of her no-fucks-given, in-your-face authenticity. And armed with this diamond-sharp sense of self, Cardi B made great music. That music you heard at the top of the show, that wasn't great music. That was a preset loop for my Melotron called All the Angels Sing, MK3. I played you that loop because I can't afford the rights to girls like you by Maroon 5 with a featured verse by, no joke, Cardi B herself. And why would I play you that specific slice of red pill cheese could I afford it? Because that was the number one song

in America on September 29, 2018, and that was the night Cardi B found herself in the middle of a violent melee in a queen's strip club that led to charges that still stand today, a potential prison sentence and courtroom drama that is yet to play itself out. On this episode, Insta Celebrity, Strip Club Beatdowns, red pill cheese and the inimitable Cardi B. I'm Jake Brennan, and this is Disgraceland. Cardi B kept her right leg aligned vertically with the pole and stood parallel to the cold titanium rod that stretched from the floor to the ceiling. She extended her left leg, pointed her toes and lifted them about six inches from the ground, and then began to twirl.

As she swung her voluptuous body with grace around and around, she ended her motion by hooking the pole with her extended left leg, gripping it with her inner thigh. She clutched the top of the pole with her right hand and squatted down and back slowly, arching her back slightly, popping her ass out just a touch to accent her natural cuff. It was a small but attentive audience who she held and raptured. The late shift. Two old timers, one dude, clearly a purve from central casting.

Trench coat buttoned all the way up in the middle of the summer. Hands nowhere to be seen, disheveled, and unable to make eye contact with anyone since the 1980s. The other, a total herb, white dude, thin hair that was probably once blonde but was now too thin and too gray to properly color. He looked tired, beat too. down, by work, by his wife, by his life. He was a familiar sight to Cardi, he and the countless other middle-aged working stiffs who looked just like him and took this ride with her every night. She didn't mind. She needed them as much as they needed her. She threw trench coat purve a look.

His eyes started away. And then she clutched the top of the pole with her left hand just above her right and pulled her body in slowly to the pole so that it was positioned dead center against her. She pressed her forehead against it first, and then threw her head back, allowing her hair to cascade down to her ass. She pulled herself toward the pole again and slid it between her breasts, then threw her head backward again while slowly grinding her crotch against the pole. Thinning hair dude, sad, expressionless, just stared at her dispassionately but focused. Trenchcoe purve looked like he was going to burst. His face flushed, sweat dripping down the sides of his head from his greasy hair, and Cardi knew she had them. of them. She writhed up on the pole some more, and she swore she saw thinning hair dude's lips

start to form a smile. And then in one quick motion, she lifted her lower body up, clutched the pole with her knees, slid herself down the pole toward the floor, locking eyes with trench coat purve the entire way. Upon landing as her ass met the floor, she extended both legs out like scissors, completely straddling the pole from a seated position. She continued to rub herself against the pole, but now her face had come alive. That big Bronx personality was starting to take over to ham it up for the audience. Sitting on the floor, straddling the pole, grinding, gripping it with both hands, she leaned backward and began twirling her long brown hair while pantomimiming a mild orgasm.

She then began pulling herself back up the pole, and as she did, she stared straight at thinning hair dude. He stared straight back. He was transported. Away from a shitty job, away from his demanding wife. She was all that mattered. knew it. It was working. She had him, him and everyone else. But more importantly, she'd found something she was good at. Stripping. Thinning hair dude and trench coat purve were firmly in her grip, near the point of climax as Cardi B rode the pole back down and then? Cardi B. let go of the subway

pole, grabbed her backpack on the seat behind her and bounced out of the A-Train car for her apartment in Washington Heights. Stripping was a skill like anything else. And if she was going to go get that money, needed to practice her poll work, and New York City subway cars in the middle of the night, were a hell of a lot cheaper than renting a dance studio. Cardi had been fired from the Amish market she was working at, and the one good thing that came from the minimum wage gig was the idea her boss had when he fired her. You should dance. You get the body for it. Go across the street, they'll probably hire you. Across the street was the strip club New York Dolls, and although young, 20-something

Cardi B likely knew nothing of the 1970s downtown proto-punk band of the same name, the group's trashy glam in New York City street style is a foundational part of Cardi B's makeup. Her DNA is as New York as David Johansson's menacing androgy. And her personality, like Johansons, as big and bombastic as anything to ever come out of the five boroughs. Management at New York Dolls was quick to recognize this. They knew the little girl from the market across the street was on brand. all she had to do was act naturally and the bridge and tunnel herbs would unload their wallets onto

the glass stage, and she was hired. But once hired on as a dancer, it was survival of the fittest. Dancing was a hustle. You not only needed to be good at dancing at poll work at working the customers, but you needed to invest in yourself. The girls who brought home the most bread, two, three grand a night, looked more like Jessica Rabbit curved hip-hop superheroes than they did Cardi B, who at the time was going by her birth name, Belcalis Almanzar. And the competition in the clubs had curves for days, humongous asses and big fake boobs. Belcalis needed to invest in herself to make that big bank. And so that's what she did. And before she knew it, she was one of the most in demand dancers in Manhattan, even traveling out of state for appearances. But it was her regular appearances

on Instagram that brought her real fame. Her videos with observations on life love stripping, even advice from the dudes and the haters. Her follower count grew right alongside her growing curves, and she made no apologies for her chosen profession or her implants. But it wasn't because of her looks or her dancing that her social profile blew up. It was because she was funny as fuck. She was unique with that Big Bronx accent and quip totally raw and totally authentic musings on most everything.

And there was no faking it to make it. There was just, this is who I am. Later for you, if you can't get with me, I'm going to make you laugh even if you hate on me vibe. And it was infectious. On Instagram, Cardi B turned herself into a meme machine, spitting out constant, quotable one-liners that spoke to her specific sense of self

and unique brand of feminism. I think us bad bitches is a gift from God. It doesn't matter where life takes me or what life gives me, I'ma be the way I am to the day I die. And if you don't like it, go die first, bitch. I don't care about anyone not liking me. You bitches barely like yourselves. And then my personal favorite.

Yo, I want to eat my own pussy. She created her own language, popularizing words like, O'KER, meaning okay, regular, degular, shmegular, meaning girl next door, or, you know, your basic bitch. Yow, meaning, yeah, that's cool, but whatever. And shmoney, as in, that's what I want, that M-O-N-E-Y, what it can't buy, I can't use, give me that schmoney. Once she popped on Instagram, the VH1 reality television show Love and Hip Hop came calling. And with her platform on Swole, her new manager,

suggested she rap on those videos she was posting. And once that attitude, humor, and accent was set to rhymes, a megastar was born. After guesting on various singles with bigger artists, releasing her own mixtape Gangsta Bitch Music Volume 1, Cardi B signed with Atlantic Records, and in 2017 released her first single, Boatak Yellow. And her debut went to number one on the Billboard Hot 100 chart.

Making Cardi B, the first female rapper to go number one since Lauren Hill back in 1998. But another female rapper almost prevented it from happening. Nikki the boss, aka Nikki the Ninja, aka the female Weezy, aka Nikki Minaj. Nikki Minaj had a thing for the most hated Cardi B. There wasn't a square inch of wall visible

beneath the cutout magazine images and posters of Taylor Swift, blanketing 17-year-old Jessica's bedroom in a DIY T-Swiz collage of blonde pink and bedazzled pop style. Jessica was a Swifty, a Taylor Swift superfan, and she had work to do. An hour earlier, a series of DMs set off her Instagram notifications from Vic the Trick, who was part of the Barbes. The Barbes were Nikki Minaj's answer to the Swifties, but where the Swifties were friendly, inclusive, wholesome digital BFFs to their idol, Tate.

The barbs were hard, dead serious, defensive. of their idol, Nikki the boss. They were known for stomping down Nikki Minaj haters online with the ferociousness of a pride of lions protecting their cub. Vic the Trick's first message was direct. Yo, you was Swifty.

Your girl's single is about to be bounced from the number one slot by that whole Cardi and we need to stop that from happening. The barbs like their idol, Nikki Minaj, had a thing for Cardi B. It was competitive, territorial, zero-sum, Cardi B's win was their loss. So fuck that bitch.

Let's keep her out of the number one slot and send her back up on that pole. But all Jessica wanted was Taylor Swift's song to remain at number one because Taylor was everything. Taylor was the reason there was swiftness. Taylor was the reason she had a kimono. So Cardi B would have to find another way onto the top of the charts. Jessica wasted no time and headed online posting. Your mission today, fellow Swifties, is this.

Stream, look what you made me do, non-stop. On all platforms. We can push Cardi B out of the way and keep Queen Tete at number one. Where she belongs, do it, Swifties. The Barb's got behind the action, too, and soon both fan armies were streaming Taylor Swift single repeatedly on as many platforms as they could,

trying to keep it at number one, streaming for vengeance in an effort to hold Cardi B down. But it was no use. Cardi's track, Bodak Yellow, was too good. Cardi's personality, too big. Cardi's own fans, the Barty Gang, too inspired. Her song popped out of speakers and headphones everywhere. organically without digital armies rallying to some contrived campaign.

When her single overthrew Taylor Swiss, Cardi B was too ecstatic to let the rumors that Nikki Minaj was trying to mess with her money mess with her. Hater's going to hate, hate, hate, hate, hate, hate, hate. And a lot of haters hated and had lots to say about Cardi B. Another stripper turned rapper. Amazing what passes for talent these days. Can you imagine all the STDs she's carrying? Takes little to no talent to create rap, just write an expletive-filled rant and put a drumbeat to it.

She did a vine that went viral, celebrity status, overnight. She needs someone to shove something into her mouth. You sing? What work? Get over you some. God, she's total trash. Wake up, you overrated stripper. Pure G-H-E-T-O. Cardi B is only interested in the Schmoney and highly overruled. She's a train wreck headed for a dumpster fire.

Pure trash. Give me a fucking break. Hard work? How hard can it be? All of her songs are the same nasty foul-mouth lyrics over and over again. She needs to go back to the crack house. Fuck that. There are two hard truths about Cardi B.

She is totally authentic, and she works her ass off. Just as her star was mid-supernova ascent, Cardi B found out she was pregnant. In September of 2017, she had gotten married in secret to offset from Migos the trio from Georgia behind the smash bad and boogie single. Rather than take time off, as would have been totally acceptable, Cardi B put in work. There was a record to make.

She locked herself in the studio for three months, worked around the clock and endured the constant fatigue and discomforts of pregnancy, nausea, bloody noses, stuffy noses, anxiety, aches, pains, cravings, bloatings, headaches, constipation, mood swings, all without complaining. And throughout it all, she hung tough and the result was undeniable. The album she completed while pregnant, Invasion of Privacy was a smash, creatively and commercially. Variety called it one of the most powerful debuts of the millennium.

The New York Times raved that it was a hip-hop album that doesn't sound anything like any of its temporal peers, and they were both right, especially the Times. Invasion of Privacy doesn't sound like anything else, and to Variety's point, the album is refreshingly raw. It's Cardi B's big major label debut full-length, but it's totally authentic to her you know. voice and point of view. Nothing on it, not the production of the lyrical content, is cleaned up or watered down for mass consumption. Yet the album debuted at number one on the go-board charts, and Cardi B became the first female artist to chart 13 entries at the same time. Invasion of Privacy

also became the most streamed album by a female artist in a single week's time. Two of the album's singles, Bodak Yellow and I Like It, shot to number one, and by the fall of 2018, six, months after it was released, invasion of privacy was certified double platinum, and when all was said and done, all of the album's 13 tracks were certified gold or higher. Cardi B's debut album wasn't your run-of-the-mill success story. It was a massive smash, and that kind of success comes with perks. Fame and money, of course, but also access. Doors open for you that previously barred you from entry. In the fall of 2018, the guest list for Harper's Bar Bazaar's annual Fashion Weeks' Warray at Manhattan's prestigious Plaza Hotel listed Cardi B's name,

along with an Uber A list of guests including Kendall Jenner, Justin Thoreau, Russell Westbrook, Meek Mill, and OG Uptown Girl, Christy Brinkley, among others. Cardi was distracted on the red carpet. Nikki Minaj, that first-class pain in the ass, was going to be there. Nikki and her Barb's BS, along with her low-key disses on Instagram, liking posts that disparaged Cardi's flow, et cetera, it all had Nikki Minaj on Cardi B's last nerve. But the offense that had Cardi most upset was Nikki's supposed diss of Cardi's parenting. After Cardi had created one, if not the most successful, debuts by a female hip-hop artist,

while pregnant, and had then decided against going on the road with Bruno Mars turning down a massive payday in order to stay home with their newborn baby, culture, and to rear that baby, bond with that baby, and raise that baby, Fuck Nikki Minaj and her Pink Friday Barbie bullshit. Nikki was decked out in a sequin tiger print gown straight off the runway, her hair blonde,

maximum vamp. And Cardi strolled the red carpet in a massive Dulce Gabana gown, scarlet with ruffles, announcing her arrival with the subtlety of a diamond-encrusted sledgehammer. Her blood-red platform heels killed and were killing her.

She was in no mood. So when someone stepped on the train of her dress, Cardi B's blood boiled. And when she turned, turned around to see that that someone was who she believed to be Nikki Minaj, Cardi lost it. She went at her, hot and instantaneous, a 5-foot-3-inch manic fury of violence,

shouting down Nikki Minaj in that thick Bronx accent, and raging toward her. Security quickly sprang into action and threw themselves between the two brawling hip-hop divas. In the midst of the melee, Cardi shouted out at Nikki, say some shit about my kid again, and lunged through a security before Nikki's security stopped her.

Then, Cardi bent over and took off her shoe, the one with the sharp stiletto that had been driving her crazy since she had arrived. It was no longer a fashion item. It was a weapon. Once freed from her foot and in her hand, Cardi launched it straight at Nikki's head. Security scrambled to move Nikki out of the plaza. Cardi took the beat and realized her gown had been ripped so bad her ass was hanging out. Her security used the train to cover her and hustled her out of the plaza, barefoot. A lesser woman would have been humiliated, but not one who is so comfortable in her own semi-eastern.

exposed skin. There was no humiliation for Cardi B. Plaza Hotel or not, Harpers Bazaar, Gala, Fashion Week, whatever the fuck, this was who Cardi B was. Fuck them all and fuck Nicky Minaj. Bitch had it coming. We'll be right back after this word, word, word. Cardi B, quote-unquote, emotional gangster offered up regular relationship advice on record and on Instagram to her 45 million plus followers and fans. Cardi's advice and matters of love were self-imbalmed. empowering, shamelessly materialistic, and came with just a hint of vulnerability. Though she married in secret to Offset, Cardi made no secret about her love and admiration for her new husband. But the relationship wasn't without problems. In late 2017, Offset's iCloud account was hacked,

revealing not only explicit videos of Cardi from her days on the poll, but also a video of one of Assets, friends, a young, unidentified woman dancing naked in a hotel room. Rumors of the young husband's infidelity lit the internet on fire. And Cardi blew it all off, but the rumors and the suspicion and no doubt stung. And these suspicions were likely swirling around her head on August 29, 2018, when she and her entourage entered Angel Strip Club in Queens, New York. The night was supposed to be about blowing off steam, having some fun. And that's what these places were for, except now it would be Cardi B.

and her entourage sitting on sticky wooden chairs in the audience, making it rain singles onto the stage. Cardi's time on stage was over, but it didn't mean she couldn't appreciate a good night out of the club with her man. That's what was set to happen when they entered. The base bumping from the large subs under the beer-stained stage. A shiny faux oak color, dark like the rest of the club. Black bar stools and soft waves of purple from the LED strip lights.

The interior design, no doubt intended, to imply a sort of regal hip-hop sexiness. In the fake crystal chandelier above the stage, the overpriced drinks and mandatory two-drink minimum, the smell of urine permeating the excitement and desperation in the air. It all added up to an utter drag that was tolerable only because near-naked women were prancing around in thongs and or hot pants and pasties, some strippers working on stage and on the couch is out back for lap dancing tips, perfectly legal intimate performances that went from innocent to prostitution with the first flash of real cash, and the other women, scantily clad waitresses and bartenders,

serving up watered-down cocktails to thugs on pervert row and professionals at the bar. And to Cardi's estimation, the bartenders were a problem, especially that short one with the kinky hair and the impossibly small waistline who called herself Jade. Cardi was rolling deep. Her man offset and his group Migos were making a paid appearance at the club. Cardi had her security in tow as well as some friends, a group that swelled with hangers-on once inside Angels. It was loud, and that bass, bumping.

Cardi wanted something from the bar. She glanced over. There was that little trick, Jade, smiling, batting those fake eyelashes. In her sister, Batty G. at the other end of the stick, the two of them had dudes three deep behind stools competing for their attention. Jade was aware of Cardi B's presence. Everyone was. So Jade was stressing, and her sister, Batty G knew why.

She and Jade had Cardi on watch ever since they ran into her in a hotel lobby in Atlanta a couple months earlier where they claimed Cardi rolled up on them and out of nowhere threatened to beat them down if they messed with her man. Then, according to the sisters, Cardi B backed her words up

with continuous threats of violence on Instagram. Jade and B., if they weren't scared, were at the very least cautious of Cardi. To the world, Cardi B was a hip-hop social media superhero but to the sisters, she was hood as fuck A blood gang affiliate, totally intimidating. From behind the bar, Jade caught Cardi's stare. She tried avoiding it, couldn't.

Cardi B. A.k.a. the most hated bitch on the planet, as she had jokingly referred to herself. Her wrath, as real in that room as the bumping sub. Jade focused on the drink she was making, pressed her thumb to the soda gun. It spat out flat club soda from a dirty line into a dirty glass with dirty smelling ice. She grabbed a lime, threw it into the glass, and slid it across the bar. to the thug with the 20. She kept the change and kept her focus on the drinks,

avoiding the South Bronx sirens, staring her down. Jade wondered what her sister was doing at the other end of the bar. She was afraid to look up for fear of catching Cardi's stare. She grabbed the gun again and sprayed more soda into the glass with a splash of Smyrnaw, grabbed another line with her long, dirty fingers, threw it into the glass, and slid it across the bar to the newest thug with the 20. Then she turned to the bar again, and that's when she felt it.

Crash! Right across her pretty face, glass, ice, smear it off. Then the swarm of thugs at the bar, someone grabbed her hair, pulled her down. All she could do is hear that voice, that familiar, thick Bronx accent. You fuck my husband? What? Jay thought, you fuck my husband? Jay amidst the melee thought to herself, how could she ask me a question like that?

How could she ask me? I'm a sister. You asked me that? Where do you get your balls big enough to ask me that? Again, that Bronx accented voice. closer to her, above her, hovering. Just tell me. Jade thought to herself, I'm not answering you.

I'm not going to answer that. It's stupid. Again, the voice over the subs. You're very smart, Jady. You give me all these answers, but you don't give me the right answer. I'm going to ask you again. Did you or did you not?

Jade in her head, I'm not going to answer it. It's a sick question. You're a sick fuck, and I'm not that sick that I'm going to answer it. I'm not telling you anything. You're a sick bastard. I feel sorry for you. I really do.

You fuck my husband? You fuck my husband? Someone grabbed Jade by her hair. Long, piercing nails. Like daggers dragged across her scalp. Jade felt herself being pulled up over the bar. Then a hard thumb to her skull. Jay could smell cigarette ashes, could taste the grimy tobacco on her glossed lips. Then smacks to the skull and a giant crash on the back bar. Broken glass spilled water.

All the result of a giant hookah pipe that had been launched at her. Finally, she was let go. She slid down behind the barred of the sounds of the melee entering its second phase. The, it's all over but the shrieking phase. Security hustling out her attackers, her attackers busting out a final round of shit talk. And then, that big Bronx accent again.

Fuck with my man. Fuck with my money. Fuck with my man. My man, I'm blood. I'll fuck you bitches up. What might have sounded intimidating, harsh, violent, aggressive was just Cardi B being herself. Whatever and wherever the hell she happened to be,

the club, Instagram, same thing. Cardi B being Cardi B, shouting down haters. And then, it was over. Authenticity was why Cardi B was at the top of the game. Number one hits, massive royalty checks, sold out shows, diamonds, luxury automobiles, a new house for a mama, a book deal, movie deal and a massive rabid following, as Cardi B says, I'm rich, bitch, and I smell like it.

The charges of sisters were throwing at her for the incident of angels weren't anything to worry about. Cardi B showed up in court looking like a corporate hood goddess and rejected the plea deal. She'd beat the rap. It was kid stuff, the misdemeanor charge of reckless endangerment and assault, and it only carried a short prison sentence, probably a year, maybe five, whatever. She knew she'd beat it. After all, she'd done worse and gotten away with it.

Trenchcoat Purve sat on the edge of the bed, nervous, and the hotel room was too expensive, but still the AC was busted, and the room was too hot, and he was too shy to take off his coat. And so he just sat there, afraid to make eye contact with the dancer whose offer he'd taken up. It was just too good to refuse, and she was too sexy, and he was too obsessed. He'd been following her around the city since she got her start. At first, on the subways, then, at various clubs where she danced, and finally, to disappearance on stage in Toronto. He nearly came in his pants when she leaned over and sing-songed into his ear.

Oh yeah? You want to fuck me? Yeah? Yeah? Let's go back to my hotel and you can fuck me all night. It was too much. He said nothing, just stood up, pulled his wallet out of his pocket, opened it to check its contents, flashed his wad of cash, gave her a look and a nod toward the door,

and within seconds they were bouncing down the street toward the hotel she'd mentioned. Once in the room, his mood changed. His shyness had taken over When she wanted a party She cracked the mini bar open Grabbed two nips Smeer not for him Butcardi for her

She told him to close his eyes While she got undressed It was part of the tea She said And when she did She slipped the powder Into the smear-off bottle Pulled off her foe for a coat

Grabbed him by the back of the head With both hands And buried his face Into her naked ample bosom Letting out that big Bronx laugh In the process She shook his head free of her chest Turned to the desk

To grab the nips gave him his Smyranov, already uncapped and proposed a toast, to get in that schmoney. He laughed, raised his bottle to hers, shot it down and fell back onto the bed. He felt instantly relaxed. And then, when he awoke, he was tied up to the bed. His wrists bound by his socks. He was naked and absent his trench coat with his limp little ticket taker exposed. He felt a sharp shriek of embarrassment.

But when he saw his wallet lying on the bed below him in all of its contents, totally gone, in the wind, just like her. her, he felt humiliated. The robbery was straighthood, just like Cardi B. That Cardi B didn't care. She let the world know in an Instagram story boasting about drugging and robbing men from her stripping days as a means of survival. It was a different reality for her then, but that reality informed her. She never ran from it. Nothing was handed to her. She had to go out and get it, and that didn't change with success. Sure, there was no more stripping or robbing, but there was still Cardi B. who she was, her authoritative.

authentic self, hustling, hardworking, shit-talking, big and proud, defending herself against their haters, against women out to take her man, against divas out to keep her down, and there was no faking it to make it, and she'd made it by being her own damn self every step of the way without compromise. What's more rock and roll or punk or gangsta about that? Nothing. Hater's going to hate. I'm Jake Brennan. It's Disgraceland. Disgraceland was created by yours truly is produced in partnership with double Elvis. Credits for this episode can be found on the show notes page at disgracelandpod.com. If you're listening as a Disgraceland All Access member, thank you for supporting the show.

We really appreciate it. And if not, you can become a member right now by going to disgracelandpod.com slash membership. Members can listen to every episode of Disgraceland ad free. Plus, you'll get one brand new exclusive episode every month. Weekly unscripted bonus episodes, special, audio collections and early access to merchandise and events. Visit disgracelampod.com slash membership for details. Rate and review the show and follow us on Instagram, TikTok, Twitter, and Facebook at

DisgracelandPod, and on YouTube at YouTube.com slash at Disgracelandpod. Rockerola.