In some ways, I feel I’m one of the luckiest people alive. I do something I somewhat enjoy doing as a job, I live in a pretty decent apartment and I don’t have to play a mental game of Russia Roulette each time I go to the bank to withdraw funds. All of that means nothing, however, without having the slightest bit of common sense, of which I am also fortunate to have.
However I, like so many others, always long for more. More money is always near the top of the list, as it could provide me with so many other things I’ve thirsted for in life, like sneakers, medical and dental, the ability to not have to rely on chicken cutlet sandwiches from the neighborhood deli for sustenance three times a week and other materialistic baubles. Not too much to ask for, right?
When I was younger, I used to believe that wrangling a woman so attractive you’d have sex with her in front of your moms just to prove a point was the icing on the proverbial hip hop cake. If anything, however, that train of thought could prove to be the most damaging aspect of anybody’s life and career, or for a guy at least. Nowadays it seems any woman can do a couple of low-grade music videos to meet a rapper, catch him not using the most skullduggery of tricks and end up with a book deal.
If that were the case, then I think I’d rather stay barely above the poverty line.
Pioneering whores like Karrine Stephans have made it possible for anybody with a modicum of sense to come up after getting came on. Whereas having a clothing line exclusively sold at TJ Maxx, recording studio, gas station, car wash, gun range, Fatburger franchise and Laundromat are sources of alternative income for rappers, a book deal detailing the exploits that go on between the legs of them are the same for groupies.
Of course it’s not solely their faults. Rappers have been enabling these unscrupulous types since the inception of its music. Most lyricists are about as intelligent as the company they let suck them off, so they end up with this weird sense of weed carrier-sponsored invincibility as if they’re impervious and entitled to everything. Unfortunately, they almost always end up fooling around with someone even dumber than themselves, so is it any wonder the likes of Kat Stacks is running around getting recognized for being slain by the likes of Gudda Gudda of all people and we all end up knowing about it? I mean, really? Gudda Gudda? I mean damn.
I’d like to think that any reasonably intelligent person who’s rather wealthy would have the know how to wrangle a woman who, at the barest minimum, don’t need to count on her fingers and toes to tell time. Then again, with all these “tell-all” tales that end up being sold on 125th Street all the time, it’s been proven otherwise.
But seriously, Gudda Gudda?