Just Call Me Mo Rass

First it was The Game and 50 Cent.
Now it’s T.I. and Li’l Flip exchanging slaps for fun and profit.
I’ve decided that it’s time for me to hang up this writing gig and become a gangsta rapper.
Okay, strike one, I’m white.
Strike two, I’m old.
And strike three, I’m the epitome of uncool.
But I figure just one dustup with P. Diddy or an exchange of rude lyrics with Eminem on my upcoming CD “As Chubby As I Wanna Be” will lead to the talk show circuit, plenty of inquisitive press, and of course, astronomical record sales.
I already know that I don’t need any talent to be a rapper, as long as I’m able to “sample” from a song with a really good “hook.”
I’m thinking of busting rhymes with a track of the Beatles’ “Eleanor Rigby” behind them.
Check it:
“Ah, look at all the homely people...” (heavy synth-cello work) “Ah, look at all the phony people…”
Then I say something offensive like, “P. Diddy, you’re so ugly, I’ll bet Jennifer Lopez would never go out with you.”
(Yes, I know, cutting edge snaps, huh. I hate to be so mean to somebody who has never done anything to me, but this is the music business, baby.)
And it gets worse.
“Eminem, you’re so dumb, you have to use your initials because you can’t spell Marshall Mathers.”
(Ouch! I’m really getting the hang of this!)
All I have to do now is come up with something cutting to say about someone’s mama, and I’ll have armed record executives beating down my door.
“Yo, I know which “game” yo mama named you after…Sorry!”
Wait, maybe I should delete that line.
After all, I understand The Game uses real bullets to sell his records.
But such is the hip hop life of another Chubby-G in da hood.
Now I just have to hang in the ghettos of Mesquite looking for my crew, or my posse, or my homeys.
Or a rap interpreter to explain the deeper intricacies of “fashizzle.”
Peace out, ch’all!