F*ck Me For Free
So that’s how it feels to get your post pulled at XXL. Perhaps I should hit up my esteemed, long-tenured colleague here for advice on how to go about things here when that happens.
Is the life of a rapster really that difficult? The way some people describe it you’d think that it’s one of the worst jobs in the world, continuously working on your craft in the hopes that you’ll be able to turn a profit on your talents, constantly being on the road performing the same songs over and over in random-ass places across the nation, trying to convince that nation of millions to buy your products and the like. It can’t be as awful as, say, working a desk job that you do not enjoy for trivial pay that greatly and demeaningly undervalues your actual worth.
If any rapper truly believes that bullshit, then I have these magical beans for sale. Let’s keep it real, though: most, if not all, of us would quickly punt a woman knee-deep into her third trimester and slap our own grandmother to live one day in Jay-Z’s shoes, sexual perks with his wife and all. Most importantly, it provides most rapsters with the opportunity to avoid doing the same dumb shit that has some of them with a résumé of extracurricular activities sponsored by the federales.
So why is it, then, that rappers continue to do the same dumb shit that lands them back under the watchful eye of the police? I mean, is street credibility still a major factor in the Internets age? In an era when the next big star is one YouTube video or reality show appearance away, the period of street smarts is all but nonexistent now. Furthermore, a rapster is (relatively) rich enough to, if need be, hire some goon from the block to do the dirty work instead.
It’s why I always take solace in the fact that, while I’ll probably never be able to afford same lavishly gaudy chain decorated with the glossiest of blood diamonds mined from the finest of African land, I also know that I would never put myself in dumb situations that will ultimately have the authorities tearing apart the two-bedroom mansion I share in the middle of Harlem for weed, guns and – most importantly – hoes, a la Waka Flocka’s crib earlier this morning. For a rapper who gets criticized heavily for being the harbinger of ineptitude in rap, this could be perceived as an ironic case of art imitating life should Waka actually be dumb enough to (allegedly) run a prostitution ring from his own home. I mean, in today’s hip hop world where there’s an nationally known, infamous task force dedicated to keeping an eye on high-profile rapsters, the last thing one should ever want to do is get caught with dirt on their persons. Ask T.I. if riding around
shining with ecstasy in Los Angeles was a great idea after he’s finished celebrating another X-Mas, New Year’s and birthday with the same shower buddies he celebrated with a year prior.
I do hope that Waka figures a way out this mess he made (no, seriously). Otherwise, whom else can we listen to in clubs that will incite a riot?