Then, triumphantly: “I’M 315 POUNDS OF MOTHERFUCKING BEEF.”Īnd the whole place doesn’t go crazy, but the people at the front absolutely lose it. He steps downstage into the footlights, hits a kind of crossing-the-Delaware stance, barrel chest puffed, his hand on his chest like he’s sticking it between the buttons of a frock coat almost. He looks a little like Harry Knowles, a little like a young version of that guy sitting on a stool at every OTB. He turns his head, invites everybody to drink it in: The Duck Dynasty beard, the scruffy, neglected fade. “A little powder under the eye, so I look beautiful.” “I’m wearing makeup right now, because I was on TV earlier,” he tells the crowd. Tuesday night in Santa Ana, Action Bronson walks onstage to Ginuwine’s “Pony,” swigging Martinelli’s from a sweaty bottle, asking to see everyone’s middle fingers in the air.
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