(no subject)
I would like to make a quick confession: I have rediscovered country music, and therefore, as I write this the twang of Garth Brooks resonates throughout the room. So now, as we listen to my random playlists the current order goes something like Juke Box Hero, that'd be a bit of Foreigner, my boy 'Pac, and Garth Brooks. My floor is starting to take on a weird dimmension with people willingly sprawling across the hall floor, throwing shoes at each other because of this. Damn you Lauren, my nigga'.
Moving on.
There has been a lot of controversy regarding the "ghettoness" of Rhinebeck, me included, in John's so called "Blog." I would like to end the arguement right here, right now. Rhinebeck is not ghetto. Saunders and Noel were the only black kids in our class folks, and Noel doesn't count working at American Eagle and all, although he does like his women big. I however, and slowly, and most assuredly, finding my ghetto roots, and when I say, "Roots," I am not talking about the movie that sparked the black pride movement, or whatever you will have. We live in a world of ignorance, as Michael Jackson, the great white hope for black power, so kindly pointed out on South Park a fiew weeks ago. Do not be ignorant as to what you really are, and what we all are. If we be ghetto, we be ghetto. If we are destined to be as white as Colin Powell, or Condeleza Rice, then so be it. We will just have to lose the good clothing, after all fashion is dictated by advertisements directed towards the ghetto children, forcing them to want to wear the Tommy Jeans, thus, once they do wear them, forcing the suburban white kids to want to wear those same jeans because they are popular in the ghetto, the ability to dance without being on drugs, any sort of slang not associated with hillbillies from West Virginia, and move ourselves to Maine, Vermont, or New Hampshire. This rambling makes about as much sense as that walk I made with Michael just over a week ago, for those of you who missed that, Michael and I walked from UPENN to Pat's, otherwise known as 80 blocks, at 1:00 am, drunk off our asses, in a downpour, but I feel as though this rambling is essential to each of us discovering what we truly are. Good Day.
What the fuck was I just talking about? Seriously. I read it, and it makes no sense to me.
I would like to point out another other issue I have. That issue being the conforming non-conformists. You know who you are, and I have one statement for you: Just stop trying. Seriously. I hate you.
Dammit, I'm going to hell. Save me a seat at the dinner table guys! I call shotty on the one next to the heater. (Look V, I'm using it on something other than a car!) That way it can be extra toasty for me.
Tonight is the OC.
Finally, because I am ghetto, in my own little and twisted mind, I would like to leave you all with messages from 'Pac and Biggie, may they both rest in peace.
Please disgregard any typos and grammatical issues.
"And still I see no changes can't a brother get a little peace It's war on the streets & the war in the Middle East Instead of war on poverty they got a war on
drugs so the police can bother me And I ain't never did a crime I ain't have to do But now I'm back with the blacks givin' it back to you Don't let 'em jack you up, back you up, crack you up and pimp slap you up You gotta learn to hold ya own they get jealous when they see ya with ya mobile phone But tell the cops they can't touch this I don't trust this when they try to rush I bust this That's the sound of my tool you say it ain't cool my mama didn't raise no fool And as long as I stay black I gotta stay strapped & I never get to lay back 'Cause I always got to worry 'bout
the pay backs some buck that I roughed up way back comin' back after all these years
rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat that's the way it is uhh"
"B.I.G., P-O, P-P-A No info, for the, DEA Federal agents mad cause I'm flagrant Tap my cell, and the phone in the basement My team supreme, stay clean Triple beam lyrical dream, I be that Cat you see at all events bent Gats in holsters girls on shoulders Playboy, I told ya, bein mice to me Bruise too much, I lose, too much
Step on stage the girls boo too much I guess it's cause you run with lame dudes too much Me lose my touch, never that If I did, ain't no problem to get the gat Where the true players at? Throw your roadies in the sky Wave em side to side and keep their hands high While I give your girl the eye, player please Lyrically, niggaz see, B.I.G. be flossin jig on the cover of Fortune Five double oh, get the phone number your name, I got to know, I got to go Got the flow down phizat, platinum plus
Like thizat, dangerous on trizack, leave your ass kizzack"
Moving on.
There has been a lot of controversy regarding the "ghettoness" of Rhinebeck, me included, in John's so called "Blog." I would like to end the arguement right here, right now. Rhinebeck is not ghetto. Saunders and Noel were the only black kids in our class folks, and Noel doesn't count working at American Eagle and all, although he does like his women big. I however, and slowly, and most assuredly, finding my ghetto roots, and when I say, "Roots," I am not talking about the movie that sparked the black pride movement, or whatever you will have. We live in a world of ignorance, as Michael Jackson, the great white hope for black power, so kindly pointed out on South Park a fiew weeks ago. Do not be ignorant as to what you really are, and what we all are. If we be ghetto, we be ghetto. If we are destined to be as white as Colin Powell, or Condeleza Rice, then so be it. We will just have to lose the good clothing, after all fashion is dictated by advertisements directed towards the ghetto children, forcing them to want to wear the Tommy Jeans, thus, once they do wear them, forcing the suburban white kids to want to wear those same jeans because they are popular in the ghetto, the ability to dance without being on drugs, any sort of slang not associated with hillbillies from West Virginia, and move ourselves to Maine, Vermont, or New Hampshire. This rambling makes about as much sense as that walk I made with Michael just over a week ago, for those of you who missed that, Michael and I walked from UPENN to Pat's, otherwise known as 80 blocks, at 1:00 am, drunk off our asses, in a downpour, but I feel as though this rambling is essential to each of us discovering what we truly are. Good Day.
What the fuck was I just talking about? Seriously. I read it, and it makes no sense to me.
I would like to point out another other issue I have. That issue being the conforming non-conformists. You know who you are, and I have one statement for you: Just stop trying. Seriously. I hate you.
Dammit, I'm going to hell. Save me a seat at the dinner table guys! I call shotty on the one next to the heater. (Look V, I'm using it on something other than a car!) That way it can be extra toasty for me.
Tonight is the OC.
Finally, because I am ghetto, in my own little and twisted mind, I would like to leave you all with messages from 'Pac and Biggie, may they both rest in peace.
Please disgregard any typos and grammatical issues.
"And still I see no changes can't a brother get a little peace It's war on the streets & the war in the Middle East Instead of war on poverty they got a war on
drugs so the police can bother me And I ain't never did a crime I ain't have to do But now I'm back with the blacks givin' it back to you Don't let 'em jack you up, back you up, crack you up and pimp slap you up You gotta learn to hold ya own they get jealous when they see ya with ya mobile phone But tell the cops they can't touch this I don't trust this when they try to rush I bust this That's the sound of my tool you say it ain't cool my mama didn't raise no fool And as long as I stay black I gotta stay strapped & I never get to lay back 'Cause I always got to worry 'bout
the pay backs some buck that I roughed up way back comin' back after all these years
rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat that's the way it is uhh"
"B.I.G., P-O, P-P-A No info, for the, DEA Federal agents mad cause I'm flagrant Tap my cell, and the phone in the basement My team supreme, stay clean Triple beam lyrical dream, I be that Cat you see at all events bent Gats in holsters girls on shoulders Playboy, I told ya, bein mice to me Bruise too much, I lose, too much
Step on stage the girls boo too much I guess it's cause you run with lame dudes too much Me lose my touch, never that If I did, ain't no problem to get the gat Where the true players at? Throw your roadies in the sky Wave em side to side and keep their hands high While I give your girl the eye, player please Lyrically, niggaz see, B.I.G. be flossin jig on the cover of Fortune Five double oh, get the phone number your name, I got to know, I got to go Got the flow down phizat, platinum plus
Like thizat, dangerous on trizack, leave your ass kizzack"