That ain't no way to do a man, dawg. After all The REAL DM did for y'all? Shady. A man is loyal to his own. Maybe I oughta walk in and volunteer to run OD. I can do that shit. I made a Blogger blog, once. I can do work, son. Callin' Bruce now. I don't even need a phone. Just holler in the air. "BRUCE!" Boy come a-runnin'. Know why? 'Cause he knows who he can trust. That's right. I gotcha, nig.
YEAH. I said it.
Ugh. I feel rather dirty after that. One of my calibre doesn't throw down the "N"-word blithely. I'll never understand the American fondness of it -- especially in the black community. I am, however, quite excited to begin my rhyming lessons, next week. Rather awkward that the only rhymers I'm acquainted with are rowdy white gentlemen and the odd Middle Easterner. Anyway, it should be exciting.
I'm treating myself to a leather baseball cap. I've always fancied one. A young Pakistani in Stepney has offered to sell me a surplus of velour running suits and a gold-plated brass knuckle with the word "LEGIT" soldered into it. If the mates in Cambridge could see me now!
I don't understand the appeal of fried chicken and hot sauce. It's a nice potato curry for me, thank you. It's not the same kind of spice, you see, not the same "bang". And all that meat. It must make one dead stroppy after awhile...
Dear. The poodle's run off with the Battenberg cake.
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