I was walking home from the grocery store the other evening when the pleasant silence of my neighborhood was broken by some serious freestyle rap. I saw the classy rapping gentleman on the opposite corner, and seeing as how he decided to follow me and project his voice in my direction, I could only assume some of his improv lyrics were directed towards me. This is how he flowed:
“Man, f**k your s**t, all of that s**t. Ah, man, f**k this s**t. All of your stress. Can’t handle my stress. Yeah, f**k your s**t.”
I guess he was referring to my Skinny Cow Mint Chocolate Chip Ice Cream Sandwiches in my bag.
Sorry dude, that’s just how I do things.
I was about to hit with some of my own rap, Mr. Show style:
Monthly Archive for June, 2008
Today has been one of those days. It’s at the end of days like this that I typically like to gather my crew, find my tightest acid-wash jeans, fire up the beatbox, and blow off some steam by dancing…hard.
Oh my God, someone caught me on tape:
