cRap

So, this morning, I turned on the Internets to discover that the illustrious 50 Cent has released a new album. Seeing as I have poor taste and can only recognize my cultural identity in the music I listen to, I took a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to seize this little gem. “Hot damn,” says I, “surely, multi-talented singer/songwriter Mr. Cent deserves my hard-earned money far more than I do. And look what quality entertainment he can provide for only $15.00! My God, it’s too good to pass up!”

It had to be mine. Since this was an extra-special occasion, I popped in my monocle, dusted off my hat, shined my shoes, and tossed on my overcoat. I strolled over to the local shop and accosted the nearest fine young chap I could find. I struck up a conversation with a helpful boy whose nametag read “Josh.”

“Excuse me, lad,” I said, “Have you the latest Fifty Cent record? Personally, I find his cadence and diction to be an absolute delight!”

“What?”

“Ah… I’m sorry. Erm, you know, Fifty Cent? Tall, scarred, negroid fellow?”

“Oh, you mean Fitty Cen’.”

“Fifty Cent?”

“Fitty.”

“Excuse me?”

“Fitty.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Fitty.”

“Yes, very well. Would you be so kind as to direct me so I might purchase his latest album?”

He pointed without a word. I turned around, and was faced by a rackful of muscled black men staring blankly back at me. And like a 9MM round, it hit me: This is the worst album cover I have ever seen.

I also suddenly realized that even a white Anglo-Saxon Protestant like me could be a rapper. All you sucka MC's got nothin' on me. In fact, just about anyone could. Why be, God forbid, an architect, doctor, or lawyer, when you can be a hip-hop artist? One need only adhere to the following steps to live that dream:

1. Write a song which uses the latest/dumbest ebonics buzzword between 20 and 80 times. (Bonus points if reefer is used as inspiration.) Other necessary musts include beating your ho and/or loving your baby girl, encrusting everything you own with diamonds, and busting some caps in anyone who so much as looks at you funny. Don’t worry if you can’t think of anything original; substituting the occasional round of “mmm”, “uh-huh”, and “yeah” will more than suffice in place of actual lyrics. Talk fast and furiously. The faster and angrier, the better.

2. Set your poetic genius to a phat beat. Use a Casio keyboard if you have nothing else available. It’s okay, nobody will know.

3. Rake in the millions.

4. Congratulations, you are now a rap star.

5. Repeat steps 1 through 3 ad nauseum until either A.) A bigger and better rapper comes around to replace you, B.) You are shot or, C.) Your fans develop common sense. But don’t worry:

6. In the event of A, you will most likely be assimilated into this rapper’s posse as a well-paid underling/partner in crime.

7. In the event of B, you will posthumously generate tenfold the amount of revenue you received in life, and will be praised as an artistic savant for decades to come, as diehard fans everywhere will pour a .40 on the ground to remember your passing.

8. C never happens, unless you’re Vanilla Ice or M.C. Hammer.

Yes, while even I could be busting out phat rhymes in no time, I will never accept rap as a form of music. If anything, it’s closest to an entertainment curiosity, like professional wrestling, just not music. But hey, 1.14 million fans can’t be wrong, can they? It’s okay, Fitty don’t care as long as you keep buying. Hell, I wouldn’t either, if I lived in a house made out of solid gold Ferraris.

But for God's sake, pull up your damn pants.