When anyone desires to discern my location, it is wise to recall the following axiom. At any given time, I am most likely cavorting wildly in a nightclub located in a number of fine cities around the world.
In all of them, you can consistently find me in the individual establishment's special "VIP" section, where only the truly wealthy dwell and where table service is both provided and compulsory. Availing myself of this expensive service, I am often celebrating any given event (or often no event at all), with bottles of extortionately expensive champagne.
In this venue I am also generally in possession of the drug ecstasy. Based on the knowledge of this fact, any female partygoers who wish to take the drug (and thus enhance the quality of your own experience) are strongly advised to seek out my company.
But be warned. While I want to (and expect to) sleep with you, my interest in sexual relations is entirely gratuitous, emotionless and solipsistic. Women should not expect me to offer them any form of emotional affection, despite my disproportionately passionate desire to have sex with them.
If this type of non-conjugal relationship is what you would desire, you should go forth to find me in the aforementioned club, introduce yourself, and give me a hug.
Thank you.
Verse 1: C. Lenz
My fellow rap artists would have you think that this hot new joint marks my reentry into the hip-hop world. But the fact of the matter is that for them to consider me a 'fellow' artist, and hence equal in status, is indicative of unprecedented levels of vanity on their part.
The truth is, I never left the game. Rather, I decided that my interests would be better-suited producing tracks for aspiring rappers so that I may benefit financially from their potential success, without tarnishing my own, although infallible, credibility in the event that they end up like the members of Making the Band 2 - and Making the Band 3.
Other rappers may call themselves gangsters or occasionally the Don, but I transcend normal thug monikers, and opt instead for more appropriate terms to convey my supreme dominance. You can call me the Fuhrer of the hip hop world, manipulating my minions with the adeptness of a tyrannical fascist dictator, while reaping the benefits of their hard work from the sanctity of my palatial estate. Don't be mistaken. I'm no mere rap artist; I'm a rap god. Show penitence before God by getting on your knees immediately, bitches.
Whatever you may label my decision to return to public light once more, be advised that your hateration will be duly noted. Before you try and roll with this celestial dominance of the rap world, however, allow me to inform you of some of the new additions to the empire.
I grew bored of all the posers stepping up the automotive game with their increasingly larger dubs mounted on even more typical Cadillac Escalades. I decided to end the contest once and for all with one decisive display of supremacy. I now vaporize small buildings with the focused reflection of the solar rays off of my colossal 12-foot chrome-and-diamond-studded rims mounted on my Liebherr T 282 B industrial earthmover. This is a necessary externality, however, because I need the 400-ton carrying capacity to haul around my mountain of ice.
A 727 with my name emblazoned on the side of it just wouldn't be fitting. While my posse’s size and surplus of hos indeed warrants such capacity, I require a vessel of more established elegance. I opted instead for the purchase of a supersonic Concorde from British Airways, fully refurbished and capable of speeds in excess of Mach 3 with the accompanying upgrades. But rather than interrupt the beauty and elegance of its seamless LSB color, I elected instead to commission a squadron of F-18s refitted with smoke emission equipment to trail my aircraft and spell out my name at rotating intervals during flight, so that my presence, if only brief, will be known to all.
Chorus 2: Chamillionaire - Ridin’
The local police department in every American city (Editor’s note: Except Houston) often observes me driving my expensive vehicles in an ostentatious and marginally-lawless fashion. I refer to this behavior as “Rollin’,” and it generally includes, but is not limited to: me driving my vehicle at an either abnormally slow or dangerously fast speeds, engaging in illegal narcotic consumption, and often contemporaneously receiving oral stimulation from an attractive female.
Because of the inherently jealous (and racist) nature of these officers of the law, they cast much ill-will towards me in this stylish-yet-passionate pursuit of wealth, fame, and promiscuous women. This hate, in turn, causes them to weakly invoke racial profiling in an attempt to pull my expensive vehicle over, search it, and catch me in possession of illegal substances. Shameful.
But to further cement my Baller Status, as well to further provoke the men in blue, I play hip-hop music on car stereo at extremely high decibel levels. And at the same time that I am flaunting my incredible style at incredible volume, I am also on my cellular telephone, closing deals in my side business of selling narcotics.
The police are obviously keen to catch me in possession of said narcotics, especially when I flaunt their sale and ingestion so conspicuously, but they invariably fail to do so. How do I continuously escape the long arm of the law, you ask? Son, that’s for me to know. Much like magicians, ballers never tell their secrets.
Verse 2: J. Hartfield
Greetings and salutations, haters!
Do you remember me? I know it’s been quite a while since I slapped you upside your head with my huge phallus, but I’m hoping you do.
Still drawing a blank, huh? My sincerest apologies, maybe you are more accustomed to getting male genitalia in your face than I previously thought possible.
Allow me to describe myself. I’m that guy you were breaking your neck to check out driving down PCH in a vintage Porsche, with a Nate Dogg blunt in one hand and a fist full of endangered California Quail eggs in the other. I was planning on releasing the Quail eggs to the wild until I saw you, my slack-jawed friend, rubberneck me in the passing lane. You are probably wondering why you then saw me crack the rare and majestic egg open, and ingest the raw Quail fetus directly into my esophagus.
The short-answer to that burning question, my Neanderthal friend, is simply because I could and you could not. Therein lies the fundamental difference between myself, a young Left Coast baller chasing paper in this game we call hip-hop and you, a buster-ass reject whose life obviously sucks due to the plain fact that you cannot, and never will, become myself. Condolences.
So, my primate compatriot, I think its safe to say that I’m back. Bitch. Yes, I’m not only back, but I’m also providing you with even more ammunition to hate on me. A generous offering on my part, indeed, but one I’m willing to sacrifice in order to give your pathetic existence some direction.
Think of me like your dad. Except that unlike your father, I’m constantly being fellated by cast members of the short-lived MTV series Laguna Beach: The Real Orange County. And, unlike yourself, my conception wasn’t accidental but rather the careful synergy of Shaq and that badass chick from the movie “Foxy Brown.” (Although, somehow, I did not inherit the skin tone of either of my parents.)
Thanks for playing,
tang
PS: Raw Quail egg fetus is really the only way to enjoy Quail.
Chorus 3: Beyonce – Check On It
To: Unidentified male whom I have never met, nor exchanged a verbal greeting or even know the name of, herein referred to as “Boy”,
Cc: The skankily-dressed females with whom I have traveled to this nightclub and who are observing the ensuing interaction between myself and Boy
Oh, Boy,
Despite the dark ambiance of the nightclub in which we are both spending our Saturday evening, I can see that you appear to be eyeing my body quite lustfully. Congratulations! You have now satisfied the single criterion I require in order to sleep with me. Toward that end, I ask to you take the following steps to help consummate this union.
First, please position yourself directly behind me and repeatedly grind your pelvis into my buttocks, preferably in a rhythm at least recognizably similar to the music being played in the club. I will willingly permit you to engage in this “checking up on it”, and I would admonish my skankily-dressed female friends not to intervene in this sexual friction. I assure you, ladies, I am not being harassed or molested. Please, instead, observe Boy intently as he grinds his phallic region into my rear. It is modern courtship at its finest. Somewhere, my father is smiling.
Next, Boy, please further impress me with your mastery of other, more complicated 21st-century dance moves. These should include, but not be limited to: a rapid drop in grinding elevation, a rapid gyration of grinding regions, and the abrupt stop of all grinding motion.
Boy, lust doesn't last forever, and you can be quickly replaced. Please act now.
Verse 3: M. Harrison
They say you never know what you’ve got until it’s gone. Have you haters enjoyed your blind and ignorant days, deluding yourselves into the belief that we had left the game? Time for your lasik surgery and hearing aids, you Hellen Kellers. We have never left. We were simply, as the great ones do, contemplating the game. Sharpening our tools. Viewing your foolish behavior from an upstairs two-way mirrored room like Big Brother. Now is the reconciliation.
We are the visionaries; the Darwins, Freuds and Galileos. Dare we recount our successes? (Answer: Yes.)
We smoke so many trees that the DEA, frustrated at its failure to apprehend us, has turned over jurisdiction to the EPA, who has an arrest warrant for “egregious violations of international foresting law” by our smoking the geographical equivalent of more than four thousand acres of cannabis.
The rare combination of our superlative wealth and brilliant philosophical defenses of free-market capitalism are so influential that even Mos Def and Talib Kweli are quoting Adam Smith and Milton Friedman in their upcoming albums.
And we drive so many expensive, fuel-inefficient vehicles that our personal demand for petrol outstrips the gross domestic demand of several Third World countries, including Burundi and Tajikistan. This plutocratic dominance renders our political connections peerless. OPEC? We pay their salaries. Kofi Annan calls us before he gives press conferences, and on the weekends, we write the meeting agendas for the Skull and Bones society.
And we're still smoking - every day.
As for you, you are ugly, stupid, and going nowhere in your life. Remember, our charitable allowance of your existence is a privilege, not a right. On your knees, and get a taste of this scrotum, haters.
Chorus 4: Eminem/Dr. Dre – Forgot About Dre
In the present hip-hop scene, it should be clear to the casual observer that a substantial number of prominent rappers are airing rhetoric that is manifestly devoid of true substance. These same lyrical charlatans are disingenuously insinuating that their narcissistic logorrhea is somehow relevant and worthy. How dare they. Their bullshit isn't even intelligible.
Yet to make things worst of all, these motherfuckers have committed the cardinal, unpardonable sin. They have sacrilegiously and disrespectfully lived their life as if they have somehow forgotten the incredible achievements, influence, and raw skill of the master, Dr. Dre.
