Reliving Dreams of Hip Hop Past

I have to admit something to all my wonderful friends in blogland. (Holding a candle, AA style) I am HumanityCritic, and I am a Hip-hop-aholic. I have always had a great affection for hip Hop, but as i grow older the love gets deeper primarily because of the dwindling quality of the art-form. I feel that I am one of the last messengers on a quest to save my favorite genre of music, on a life long trek ala Kung Fu. To be honest with you I am somewhat of a disgruntled MC. Not disgruntled or bitter because I never made it in Hip Hop, just that in life there are some things that you have to admit that you aren't cut out for. My lyrics were always marginal, and in Hip Hop the voice is essential and my voice was/is horrible. Some people say never say never, but at 31 years old the chances of me being a Hip Hop artist are the same as me becoming a black republican, highly fucking unlikely. Want to hear some sad shit? I continuously write rhymes to this day even though no one will ever hear them. It is like I am preparing for some worldwide MC battle or some shit, just pathetic. This brings me to the following story.

The other day I went to a gathering that a friend of mine named Jack was having. Me and Jack used to rhyme together back when we were trying to be famous more than a decade ago. Jack is cool, but I hate going to his parties because I never met a nicer guy that had such miserable bastards as friends. I also think that Jack finds me entertaining because 1)At one of his functions I punched a guy because he was talking shit to me 2) At one of his functions a woman told me intimate details about her sexual history, and all the men she was sleeping with at the time. She asked me what I thought about her and I said "I honestly think that you are a whore, who obviously wasn't hugged enough as a child" The woman was Jack's sister. 3)At one of his functions I went on and on about how any black person who votes for Bush and supports Condi Rice is a "Yes massa, No Massa, shit eating grin having, Uncle Tom House Negro." Jacks Parents were in attendance and they were big Bush supporters. So you would understand why I would question him wanting me around. I hope its not to simply "entertain" Jack, because I am no ones puppet.

During the course of the night I had a few beers, a couple shots, and some very unmanly Jello shooters. I was feeling extremely relaxed when I noticed a group of Jack's friends freestyling on his deck. I was excited because it has been a while since I had even seen cats freestyling, I thought I would listen in.

For one thing No one was freestyling, which is OK but I love it when cats go off the head. Secondly, the content of most of the rhymes being spit had to do with gun-play, "bitches", money, clothes, and cars, etc. Quickly I was disappointed and started to break out. Apparently i wear my emotions on my sleeve because some guy asked me, "If you think you got something then why don't you flow?" I shook my head and started to walk back inside the house. Then I realized that this was the exact reason that I write my rhymes, this is why I come up with rhymes for no apparent reason, wack or not lets put my money where my mouth is and drop a quick 16(bars)

I turned around and said "OK", I waited till the last wack rapper was done.
(Bobbing my head, trying to catch the beat while some miserable bastard is providing the sub-par beatbox)

Me: Check it, here we go..

(Verse)
MC's make me gag when I see em', so I battle em' and beat em'/
With more ill flows than a prostitute's vaginal secretions/
Can you believe this? Bush had people thinking he knows Jesus/
Rappers tried to defeat this, but have more small talk than midget speeches/
Move crowds like telekinesis, but I'm hated like i smack spouses
I'm dope man, I rock spots until I crack-houses
Like a schizophrenic chauffeur driving you crazy, start praying to the lord/
Me and rap go back like asscracks and spinal cords
I start shit like a laxative, ever since i was a pre-teen/
"Na mean?" Verses get you higher than Crackfeins on Trampolines
I'm attackin' them, bastard men, when I break up crews like acronyms/
Your a non-masculine maggot when, you spit shit sweeter than saccharin/
I give rivals and Eyeful when I spit rap recitals/
Mc's better watch what they say like their reading subtitles/
Masturbation couldn't beat me, with rhymes cooler than freon/
Most proctologists can't understand most of the shit that I be on/

Either it was a act of arrogance, or the fact that I was tipsy as hell, I didn't even wait for any acknowledgment and walked back in the crib immediately. But that just proves something to me, that Hip Hop is purely a way of life. Until the Day that I stop existing on this earth I will be an MC. Through all the subtle racism that laces most of the criticism about Hip Hop, I will be an MC. Even if my words are the wackest ever put to paper, that won't stop me from being an MC. Being a MC isn't by any means a exclusive group, I bet most of you consider yourselves MC's as well. Hip Hop will live forever.