Hip hop has more in common with the NBA than balling and rhyming (get it?). Some are considered prodigal sons before they even reach their twenties, while some reach their prime and flame out within their first season, and some are relegated to being a bench warming journeyman throughout their career. Everybody has their own picks for the greatest of all time, and we’ve all been guilty of rooting for a team that seemingly out of nowhere took off and became a powerhouse.
The perks are one and the same, as well. I’ve never understood how, even if you’re well beyond your means financially, you still get free stuff. I mean, most ball players and rapsters can afford the jewelry-ridden watches, luxurious vacation trips and all-green M&Ms as is, yet they still get it for free? Hell, the most I’ve ever gotten was a bottle of Ludacris’ monkey juice, Conjure, and I’m not really that rich at all. Maybe I got into the wrong business…
Anyways, as with the “complimentary” baubles rapsters and hoopsters have to deal with the groupies, slores, trollops, scallywhops and other such unscrupulous, slovenly women whom they can dominate sexually when the money comes. Thing is, most of them are already knee-deep into relationships with women, some of which have been down with them for years. So what’s a rapster to do when the groupies, slores, trollops, scallywhops and other such unscrupulous, slovenly women whom they can dominate sexually when the money comes not-so-suddenly pop up in their lives, risking the solid foundation they’ve already had with their current relationship?
I don’t mean to sound like a jerk, but it may be best if they split up with their women.
Before the remaining three women stop reading this post, allow me to articulate. Men are dogs. I am. You are. And you are too. Most of us tend to think with our dicks more often than not (word to the many times I’ve thought about sex while at a job interview), and not too many of us can keep our bozacks to ourselves and our spouses because, for reasons unknown, we can’t decipher what’s better: a possible STD-ridden one night stand with a chick that’s shaped like your secret fantasy, or going home and laying down with the wifey. And to the few of you that can actually choose the latter? You’re obviously not a rapper (or worse, a successful one), and I applaud you for giving me one less email to flood my inbox every day.
And before this gets mistaken as a feminist empowerment post, let me enunciate. Rappers from Mack Maine to Mos Def have a penchant of deep sea diving in too may fish tanks, and most ultimately get caught up paternity suits or, if a whore really wants to reach for the stars, a “tell-all” book or reality show. And that surely won’t fare well for the rapper who’s married and/or with children, as – evidenced by Nas – you’ll end up in a messy divorce, with prosecutors and the judge putting a foot on your neck for alimony and lawyer fees.
So rapsters, do the noble thing and stay single, for the sake of your sanity. You won’t get away with sloring around even when using the most skullduggery of tricks, and the end result is just sad.