Hip hop weekend was da bomb
Hip hop is such a big part of trends and pop culture, especially hip hop terminology. It’s almost like speaking in code. I had no idea that there are certain elements you must have when speaking hip hop slang. For instance, if you have to refer to anyone, you have to refer to them by three equally meaningless aliases. Puffy, Puff Daddy and P.Diddy all prove my point. So do Eminem, Slim Shady and the Real Slim Shady.
It’s hard, so mad props to mad rapping hip hop artists who have to come up with this stuff and put it to some beats. It’s definitely a craft that you must work at to get down. Here I go, A-Town signing on to drop it like it’s hot, so download, biatches.
I had a hard knock week trying to make that paper, and it had been a while since I got my drink on, so I decided to make this weekend the first. Such a momentous, mackdaddy occasion calls for some serious regulating, because when weekends get crunk, they get totally crunk as funk. You know how we do.
Thursday night, the crib dawg and I decided to head out to Kroger for some Crystale. The MC got on the mic and announced that “law prohibits the sale of alcohol past midnight.” With just five minutes left, I dropped everything and straight ran to the liquor aisle, but it was too late. At the checkout aisle, the regulator took the bottle from me. I was like, “What the heezy?” Homie was mad tripping. That was straight up whack, and I was about to bust a cap and put the smack down on someone. But I kept cool and we bounced. Needless to say, nothing went down. They always say, “Don’t start nothing, won’t be nothing.”
Friday night, my crib dawg called up the G-unit and give them the 411 on what was going down. We told them to meet us up at the club, but the girls never made it. It was aiight. Ain’t nothing but a g thing. It was all good. Mari B and I rolled out to the club by ourselves and dropped some shuffles like there ain’t nothing to it. All the Gs know that the M-Tone is always rocking the beat, so they put the mack down on her straight up every single time. When some homie approached her, trying to conversate, I felt it was my duty as a soldier to save her. Pimping isn’t easy, I know. But when it comes to pimpology, you’ve either got the maaaaad skillz or you don’t. Ladies, back me up on this one. You know that when homeslice is the bomb, you pop it like it’s hot. But when you’re approached by some player who doesn’t have it going on, but thinks he’s got it going on, you drop him like he’s not. I don’t care how dope his ride may be, how many Rolys he’s got on his arm or how much of the mad green he’s willing to drop at the bar. Homies shouldn’t try to front. It’s not about the money, cars or jewels. For the most part it’s not. It’s about flow. If you can fly with some style, you don’t need to have all the flashy bling.
M-Dawg and I decided to head back to the crib to chill. We were sitting on dubs, leaning back, popping the upbeat, backbeat, straight mixing up the schizzle when someone rang up MB Rider on the celly. It was someone from our crew, so on the way back home, we picked up our homeboy ChaCha, and he brought some Bacardi to drop into the mix. That just straight wrecks the deck when that goes down. I was getting tipsy, so I made it upstairs, and that was the point of no return for Funkmaster AT. C-Note and M. Dawg got a little crunk and passed out on the couch, and that was the end of our weekend.
Well fo schizzle my nizzle, so much for a weekend that was supposed to be off the chain. Maybe I’ll try to bring it on again next weekend when things are fresh and clean. We’ll have to turn it up a little fo sho.
A-Truong peacing out to scribble on, so just chill until the next episode. Keep it real. Word to your mother. Holler.
