Hello, dear reader. I believe I promised you something, didn’t I? Oh sure…you remember.
Every now and again, by sheer luck, I stumble upon something amazing. Sometimes it’s naked photos and torn up love letters at a local park. Other times it’s funny shopping lists. Occasionally, I’ll just find money. Hey, who couldn’t use an extra buck or two here and there, right? But oftentimes I’ve found the best stuff in my own house, IE: my brother’s old bedroom.
If we’ve known each other for a while, you may remember some of the stories I used to write about my little bro at my old Myspace page. You likely do not, though, so I think I’ll start republishing a few of the better, more memorable stories here at Fortean Squirrel sometime in the coming months.
He moved out some time ago, but I still maintain a file. Today, I open that file and remove the document I have titled: WHITE SUBURBAN TEENAGE RAP LYRICS!!!
|Luckily, neither are my brother. I’d have killed him.
Yes, my baby brother is a huge fan of what the kids call hip-hop. I never was, but whatever. To each his own. But there is simply no excuse for writing your own lyrics about the most cliche’ hip-hop fantasies of all time and then just leaving it out for me to find. Sorry, there is not.
So, kick back, put your feet up – hell, grab a 40oz – and check out WHITE SUBURBAN TEENAGE RAP LYRICS!!!!
Okay, the song is clearly unfinished. It also clearly sucks ass. Still, it makes me laugh. And proud. Because, if he makes it big, he is apparently going to hook me up with fat stacks. Whether these stacks are that of cash, or perhaps pancakes, is left unclear. I mean, I’m already fat…so maybe it’s pancakes. Even so, he thought of me. That’s gotta be worth something.
I’m sure my mom will be happy to know she is getting a Jaguar. But, since my brother apparently came from “the hood,” she would probably prefer a decent house in a nice neighborhood. That Jag is gonna get ganked, y’all.
I honestly don’t know what a lac is, let along a gold one. Help? Anyone reading this who is down with the clown? Translate.
I’m going to overlook the last lines. I don’t know why life is on his plate, how he is scraping it up, or why he is even eating in bed, for that matter. My favorite part of this whole song is just before those lines. It illuminates the true definition of what it means to be rich, bitch. Oh, sure, you can make an argument that it’s all about the cars, houses and private jets. But to have a “big box of pre-rolled sweets” is clearly what this wise hood rat clearly longs for. Because, when you’re living in a mansion in the hills, surrounded by your homies, what you really could do without is having to fuck around with rolling your own blunts. Aww, hell motherfuckin yeah.
Word to your mother.