BEST OF PHOENIX® 2004

Straight up, people, we’re not going to tell you everything. Like where to kick it with the non-Nazi skinheads, where to score an ounce of sticky green, or the best massage parlor to frequent for a “happy ending.” As far as how to find P-town’s way-underground speakeasies, and where to shoot back-alley craps, we know, but we ain’t drawin’ you no map, biscuit. That info we keep on the low, and far from the po-po.

But we will school you on how to live phat in the Phiddy, and by phat, we don’t mean what your mama’s got on her back, or what Russell Simmons’ wife looks like nekkid. For real, we’ll hook you up like Jay-Z at the VMAs. We’ll show you where you can peep some hella fine females, the best place to get your grub and drink on, where to get your ride pimped, and buy the best damn rolling papers.

Check it, we’re going to break it down, how to dress like you’re in G-Unit, and get blingage like Sean John. Where to get your swerve on and which clubs are the crunkest. The best strip clubs with the flyest dollar ballerinas, the best chicken and waffles, the best after-hours parties, they’re all here. Think your granny’s daily rag can spit game, and point out which bar has the dime lesbians, the best place to pick up a one-night skeeza, or just rent a porno? We don’t think so. So to bite a line from Dr. Dre, sit back, take a toke, but don’t choke, and prepare to cop some science from P-town’s only official playa publication, the paper all the ballers read in the Nix, the pages the pimps peruse to learn how to stack chedda like the real O.G.’s do, nephew. That’s right. Phatter than Fat Joe, and Bigger than Big Pun in his day, this is the BOP Olympics, and we got all the gold. This is Phat Phoenix, baby.