Joe and Jada - Fat Joe & Jadakiss celebrate 100TH EPISODE with Styles P, Benny the Butcher, CC Sabathia & more!

Hundred episodes, man—this feels big. We set out to be real with people, now we’re here, and I’m already plotting how to hit two hundred quicker.

Had to pull out a proper fit for the hundredth. You know we keep it coordinated without overthinking it.

I’m in L.A. at Nate ’n Al’s and get introduced to the ‘algorithm’—Instagram brass and a dude studying how to game it—so yeah, I’m chasing momentum, but the truth is we found the groove ourselves, and the other shows feel prehistoric right now.

We didn’t leave anywhere—we’re still on YouTube and leveling up elsewhere too.

Styles stays suspicious in negotiations, and a lot of times he’s right, so I listen. You can’t trust everybody; we move careful and tight.

I got got plenty of times too. Early on I let publishing go for crumbs and learned the hard way.

I sold my publishing for a car and didn’t see the guy again for decades; then a film wanted my song, and my own publisher tried to tax me to use it. That’s when I learned the business is colder than the art—triple check everything.

Exactly—paperwork first, emotions second.

We’re family for real—our homes, our wives, all connected—and we still clown about coconuts and supplements. Also, lawyers might be the only people who win whether you win or lose.

And Kiss been punishing the fits on this show—Bottega, crazy watches—the whole lane got tighter.

What’s the wildest rap line you ever heard? I still laugh at the ones nobody can translate on albums that sold like crazy.

Some slip-ups become flavor—like a rained-out line that turned iconic—and sometimes we use the wrong word and it just rides anyway.

We even joked about ‘monolium’ and then pivoted to tailoring a clean double-breasted for the celebration—keep the energy moving.

C.C., pull up—my trainers swear I can do a pull-up; I’m saying my knees been through hell.

I had a full knee replacement and I’m almost back to golf; before that, every step hurt. The recovery’s long but worth it.

When you’re heavy on stage doing Busta-level moves, your joints pay the bill, and that Euro step clip pushed surgery to the front of the line.

I used to be the meanest underhand pitcher in Bronx softball, talking wild in every hood, but Yankee Stadium humbled me and every ex–pro reminds me of those balls they parked to the tracks.

That stadium sound and the ball they use change everything; it ain’t the park on Saturday.

We soundchecked three times, and on showtime the delay spun me around—felt like a setup—still, performing in center field where I grew up looking at those lights was a dream.

A-Rod’s cool but introduces himself every time like we never met, which is hilarious. And when the Knicks lose, I know when the devil’s in the air—I go straight home instead of catching a headline over some overzealous fan.

DJ Technician stepped in—Verzuz vibes all over again—then we told folks to grab the new merch and keep rocking with us.

Tahiry, settle this—who ruined the dating economy first, rappers or ballplayers?

Both did their part—videos glamorized the lifestyle, athletes matched it, and now social made the whole thing one tap away; I still prefer effort and keep my wins quiet.

DM culture turned everything instant, but I don’t live in there; I’m about real life.

There are serial spenders and women talk, but smart women don’t share the good stuff; a ‘fuck boy’ is the guy outside too much with messy mileage.

Community service dudes, got it—appreciate the honesty; rare to get it unfiltered on mic.

And for the hundredth, we keep the bar high—welcome Benny the Butcher.

Benny, salute—what a run, and yes, I got real family up your way, so the ties are real.

I stay in people’s faces with this fly wave and still never get love from the fashion week crowd, even though I’ve owned more Louis than most; back in the day my FJ560 snorkel had so many hidden pockets the cops would tap out looking for them.

What’s next—what are you pushing right now?

Ashes in the Safe is the mindset, because I’ve blown the bag and rebuilt it more than once, and despite what people say about podcast money, the numbers are way exaggerated, so we make our own lane with better production while folks still shooting VHS vibes.

If you never went broke, you probably play it too safe; I’ve taken whole crews around the world like I was trying to empty the account just to live, and Pun was the same, living full throttle.

Pun was different; I’ve seen him let off a tester indoors like it was nothing.

Pun had everything around the house like a movie—machine guns, grenades, stash plays—I kept warning him that wasn’t reality, and even when we beat a case together he still thought celebrities had secret jails with pools.

When do you know it’s time to leave the street side alone and fully transition?

For me it was finishing one last batch of work, getting the deal, and telling my man I was done; years later he came home, saw the stages, the jackets, the lobsters, and finally got it.

We’re celebrating a hundred episodes with gifts and good energy, and I’m proud seeing you stack equity moves while I keep a package ready for the Flygod.

David Levy, you taught a whole generation reggae and dancehall on radio—how’s it feel to carry that flag?

I’m grateful, but it’s a team across the Caribbean spectrum—reggae, dancehall, soca—and with carnivals booming worldwide, this music keeps growing and healing.

People debated me saying Afrobeat drew from Jamaica—what’s your read?

Afrobeat has a long, independent lineage that used to sit under world music alongside Indian and Chinese sounds; Jamaican styles influenced the toasting, but the African groove’s been its own force for decades.

Salute—folks have heard your voice forever, now they finally see the face.

We joked about outfits, but he was out all day giving away tickets and tapping schools and even prisons, which is why our shows feel like community.

Agents told me a Wild ’N Out arena tour wouldn’t work, but I self-booked venues like Amazura, then ran thirteen cities and set DC records with back-to-back arena sellouts—no machine, just relationships, activations, and mixing comedy with hip-hop.

I’m a loud, honest laugher—if you sit up front at a comedy show, be ready to get joked on and enjoy it.

Arena funny isn’t club funny; at seventeen thousand you need pace, punch, and big moments the back row can feel, same way I write records and speeches thinking about how the room will move.

I had a heart attack and I’m on a transplant list, so that last show meant everything because I wasn’t sure I’d touch a stage again.

Part of me thinks going out on stage doing what you love is noble, but machines and tubes ain’t for me either; real talk, I can’t even do a pull-up.

You could—get the right training and you’ll get one, then more.

Even in jail I treated time like boot camp, worked out three times a day, and earned respect for the grind, but pull-ups still dodged me; now I’ve got my diabetes locked in with a monitor and strict discipline.

Older lifters gotta stop trying to hoist the whole gym—switch the routine or you’ll wreck your back and shoulders.

Big love to the production team who wrangles our chaos and keeps us rolling every week.

On relationships, not everyone’s built for sharing; paper or not, common law can make it real, and money changes what people tolerate, but raising a dozen kids means you cover the bills like a boss, period.

I’m territorial—if I choose that dynamic I accept it, but I’m not splitting my time unless I sign up for it, and wealth doesn’t replace respect or care.

Anti-aging talk is everywhere—peptides have folks glowing and labs dial in the bloodwork, while I’m over here swearing by Vicks like a bedtime cologne.

Bottom line, we built arenas without the usual gatekeepers by uniting scenes, honoring fans the agents dismissed, and proving culture can fill the big rooms.

Let’s get it—closing on a high note and sending you out with that same fired-up energy.