How Many MC’s?

01Apr09

krs-one
‘How many MC’s must get dissed

before somebody says don’t <beep> with Chris?’

– KRS-One

Chris likes hip-hop. Chris loves hip-hop. He quotes the above passage, uncredited, twenty times a day. Like a verbal tic. Like some pathological mission statement. Until recently, most evenings would find the lad down the pub, busting his rhymes — well, his rhyme — to a less than appreciative crowd since, after all, knowledge reigns supreme over nearly everyone, with the emphasis on ‘nearly’ swaying personified in that of our dimwitted hero.

Too drunk to stand, he takes the mic. Rather, he tries to take the mic — every five minutes of every Wednesday night hip-hop extravaganza peopled mostly with university students too young to have ever heard Big Daddy Kane and people looking to have sex with university students too young to have ever heard Big Daddy Kane. Chris would count himself among the latter, although his rhyme scheme would lead one to believe that his preference for sexual partner would probably have to have a child or, at the very least, be with child.

Here he goes.

‘How many MC’s must get dissssed!?
before sumbuddy says dohn fuck wit Chrissss?
don’t fuck wit Chris motherfucker!
Leave you with a black eye motherfucker!
I’m a bad motherfucker, motherfucker!’

And so on, until he either falls off or gets dragged off stage, pitched unceremoniously to the wet floor fairly shining with broken glass and bodily fluids, his patterned hoodie soiled with the sheer joy of it all. He loves his hoodie. It makes him look like a meth dealer or a half-assed mall skater/snowboarder. Whatever, man. It’s his ‘fit. He wears it with pride. Ignorant pride. Suburban, WASP pride. The pride bestowed upon the idle and shiftless by well-heeled, well-intentioned but ultimately inept parentage. The sort of pride that gets one such as Chris through his twenties with little more to show for his ‘efforts’ than a string of misdemeanors, a couple of OD’s and a hangover that will last for the rest of life. But he’s got one hell of a home-remedy.

His folks love him.

‘He’s a good kid.’

He only beats his woman when he’s drunk, after all. Hell, he even held the same job for two whole years one time. Good kid, that. And he doesn’t smoke crack, just blows the occasional rail. If we can keep him away from serious trouble, we can reward all his hard work with a business of his very own. A retail operation of some kind, bankrolled with our savings. Until then maybe we can ship him off out West where there’s enough easy work and soft-ish drugs to keep him occupied for the next few years. The difficult years. Hell, times are tough. Right? Honey? Times are tough for kids these days. Our Chris, he’s a champ. He’s the best.

He’s not a rapist. He just likes rough sex. He’s not a loser, he just plays the wrong games. Hell, times are tough. It’s tough being an upper middle-class Caucasian. He’ll come around. God, I hope he does. We spent enough money on hockey gear and road trips and video games and sneakers and clothes and booze and cops and judges and lawyers and food. He owes us. The little fucker.

He owes us.

But still, he grabs that mic. Still, he spits those lyrics on a Wednesday night. Still, he beat a bitch ass when she get outta line. And he drinks and he yells and he bitches and he whines. He freaks it. Grabs the mic and cold tweaks it. Son. So you know you better run, cause when Chris is on the mic motherfuckers get done. And you know it. But still you can’t show it. He grabs that motherfucker and he stone cold owns it. Motherfucker. And if you got beef, you can go ahead and grind it, form it to a patty in a pan and cold fry it.

Bitch.

And I’m a get mad pissed,
but how many MC’s must get dissed?

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One Response to “How Many MC’s?”

  1. 1 Hall

    Nice, dude


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