A while back I wrote a post detailing the startlingly numerous similarities between rappers’ lifestyles and my own. And even though I discovered that Rick Ross and I share the same philosophy regarding the gun placement in our Maybachs, and that Jay-Z and myself both face the daily challenge of fending off an irksome surplus of high class poontang, it was a flawed study. Sorta like the current research on global warming.
But liberal conspiracies to cripple American automobile production are neither here nor there. One thing I’ve discovered as I listen to ill track after dope jam of the most hood hip hop music ever bumped out of a spoiler- and rim-adorned Civic in a New Hampshire strip mall parking lot is that there’s a plurality to the message of most rap songs. In any given track, there are lines that don’t necessarily speak to me. So I thought I’d break a couple songs down line by line. Lyrics in italics, my comments in normal font, in case you get confused.
Rick Ross – “I Love My Bitches”
(A feminist message! I can roll with that.)
Ohh man, I love my bitches — Agreed.
Tongue kissin’ a dark skinned vixen — This is a great message of empowerment for African American women.
50, 60 racks, I might go blow a 100 though — The Bawse loses me here. A populist message might have been more prudent. I usually stick to 50 or 60 racks, but 100 borders on a papal level of excess.
Jet owner, G5, where you wanna go? — What I just said. I normally stick to first class on my model-accompanied trysts to my private island in undisclosed Caribbean waters. Did I mention that said island incidentally has its OWN private island? Don’t sweat the mind-blowing geographical implications.
Fuck your ex’s baby, really, that’s your past? — Unkind, frankly, to the former men in your women’s lives. My chicks’ exes are normally treated to the dignity of a complimentary bottle of Courvoisier and flippant yet respectful eye contact upon their forced departure from the club. It helps ease the pain of loss.
Load up your carry-on’s and all of this is cash — At first I thought this was laughable — who uses carry-on, or luggage for that matter? I always buy a new set of designer linen upon arrival in Ibiza. But then I heard the last part and I totally get it — Rick Ross has his girls transport his duffels of stacks. Which contrasts with my strategy of simply having a member of my posse fly ahead with a suitcase of bills to ensure the promptest possible resumption of rain-making. I guess I just have superior asset management.
Eminem – “Cleanin’ Out My Closet”
See what hurts me the most is you won’t admit you was wrong — Agreed, Em. That hurts the most. Except for that other thing. But people who won’t admit they’re wrong hurts the second most.
Bitch do your song – keep tellin yourself that you was a mom! — Woah, looks like Eminem’s not going to Motherboy anytime soon. I usually call my mom a hooker or tell her she’s acting like a big ol’ d-bag whenever I notice wrinkles in my slacks or burnt parts of my chocolate chip cookies, but to each his own.
But how dare you try to take what you didn’t help me to get — I can relate to that. My mom always tries to take credit for my accomplishments with boasts like “I’m so proud of you honey.” What an obnoxious braggart.
You selfish bitch; I hope you fuckin burn in hell for this shit — If anything, this line is a little overwrought. I’d go simple here.*
*Sincere apologies to my mother, whom I appreciate dearly.