Ever since I was a 15 year old kid, me and my friends huddled around a portable radio with the sound turned down real low like we were watching triple penetration porn when in reality we were listening to the new N.W A album, I wanted to be a gangsta rapper in the worst way. I mean, I have a pretty active imagination, there's no reason why I couldn't make my listeners believe that I'm a bona fide bad ass with a lengthy history of criminality. Just imagine the gritty realness that would be displayed as I take my listeners on a musical journey of a drug deal gone wrong, the end result being a cop, an innocent bystander, and a transvestite named "Jerry" meeting their untimely demise via the business end of my 45. I'd make my listeners feel like they were right beside me in that mall parking-lot shoot-out, bullets rapidly hitting the car I'm hiding behind like a quest-love drum-roll, me nervously doing the sign of the cross and openly wishing that I had went to church more, weirdly being comforted by the sounds of empty shells from my gun hitting the ground, when I walk up to the last bad guy that I'm about to dispatch I angrily say "Tell God I sent you motherfucker!! Oh Yeah, and tell him that I want rims for christmas too!" before I squeeze the trigger, only having my last kill being briefly interrupted by the dying man uttering "I think you have "God" and "Sana Claus" confused." Not only would my image be that of a guy who routinely gives people of the female persuasion a permanent limp because of the monster phallus that I could throw over my shoulder when limp, I'd rap about horrific tales of drugs, murder, decapitation, and castration that would make Scarface look like a pussy who would piss himself in the fetal position if he had to spent an hour in my shoes.
For the longest time I thought that I could pull it off, until I remembered that I cried when Cochise died in front of an old girlfriend as we watched "Coolie High" one night. I felt that people would buy that I indeed had a penis that could hammer nails, then I thought about all the women I have bored to death with my pelvic thrusting, so much so in fact that many of them had phone conversations, did their nails, or read a book as I tried my damnedest to reach their small intestines. Sure I've had many fights in my life and would tussle with anyone if I had to, but there are too many people still alive that have witnessed me scream like a white girl getting a black "Barbie" for Christmas, when I've been shot at, or when shots were fired around me. That being said, that's why I couldn't be a gangsta rapper, there are just too many people who could come forward and expose the chubby pre-ejaculator behind the curtain.
I bet you are wondering, "What in the fuck does this have to do with the Clipse?", I'm getting to that you pushy motherfucker.. See, a few of you have emailed me asking me to review the Clipse album, and endeavor that I was more than willing to partake in even if I'm not their biggest fan in the world. So, after I "spanked it" to this porn star named Jazmine Cashmere and released some tension, I popped in Clipse's "Hell Hath No fury" to give it an objective listen. After a few minutes I threw up my hands and said "I can't do this any more!!", an endeavor I'm sure isn't far from the feeling you would get after going down on Courtney Love. I mean, the music was OK, it didn't offend my Hip Hop sensibilities like a Freedom Williams comeback album would, I had to stop listening to it because I'm from Virginia Beach Virginia. Let me explain.
Lets be honest here, we all know that 95% of the shit that oozes its way out of the throats of your garden variety wordsmith is complete horseshit. I guess that is just the nature of the game that Hip Hop fans have been dealing from day one, but I guess we forgive a New York MC and his tales of drug running and shooting people in their Bubble-Goose's back in the day, because even if he is full of shit we at least can find solace in the fact that he grew up in a tumultuous environment. When that west coast MC talks about drive-bye's, tattoo tears, and shooting a mark-ass buster because he wore the wrong colors, we tend to forgive him if he's lying his ass off because we figure that he at least grew up around said environment.
But for some reason when people from your neck of the woods glorify a life of crime and hardships that you know to be absolute fiction, its just hard for me, knowing that they come from a two parent middle class background like I do, in this land of Pat Robertson no less, to sit back and nod my head in silent consent. I want these brothers to make as much money as humanly possible, but knowing my city like the back of my hand, and also having mutual acquaintances of these gentlemen, I just found it virtually impossible to give their album an objective review. Hell, when they first came out with that song where they say, "I'm from Virginia, where ain't shit to do but cook!!" I just knew that I was listening to a couple of rappers far too interested in the culinary arts, because they couldn't be talking about making crack cocaine. Sure, you don't have to live in an American city as violent as Iraq to be involved in the drug game, but one thing I hate worse than the "I had no options so I had to sell dope!" excuse is the "I come from a decent area, and loving parents, and I'm just selling dope to.. well..I don;t know why in the fuck I'm selling dope to be honest with you" excuse, that's what would make the Clipse wack to me even if they weren't fabricating their drug history.