There’s an old saying in the music industry – He who spits hot fire shouldn’t drink ice water. I believe Ted Nugent said that. Or Snow. I get them confused a lot. But no words could ring truer when you’re talking about the biggest artists in the game. The game, of course, being hip hop and rap, and one day maybe even Nordic jazz ensemble if Bjorn and Sigvard can ever forgive me for sleeping with their great aunt Gotilda. Jag beklagar, bröders! Jag beklagar!
Swedish blood rivalries aside, becoming a rap superstar isn’t as simple as making waffles or listing your best friend’s phone number on fake Craigslist hooker ads. These days you have to be a part of a crew, and some of their application processes are simply absurd. For instance, in the late 90s, I tried to join Master P’s No Limit Soldiers, but they told me that I had to sign my kidneys over to Lil Romeo should he ever need an extra. I’ve also heard that in order to join the Wu-Tang Clan, you have to provide 39 forms of identification and locate the ancient Egyptian blue lotus buriel flower. Oddly, to join Soulja Boy’s crew, all you have to do is visit him at Subway.
Becoming a solo superstar in rap these days has become a daunting task, often only accomplished by one-hit wonders. It has become commonplace for amateur rappers with fire in their bellies to take, instead, to the Interwebs to spray their lyrics into our ears like urban fire hoses. Becoming an Internet rap sensation is much different than becoming, say, the next Kanye West. Mainly because you probably suck.
The Legendary Reh Dogg
Reh Dogg exploded onto the Internet rap scene with his smash sensation “Why Must I Cry?” which has become so big that YouTube actually charges users to watch the original now. Reh, as I call him when discussing world politics, has since become an Internet icon, as his videos are imitated, mocked and remixed regularly by sad, lonely pretenders that just can’t appreciate the social statements Reh is making through his monotone delivery. I’ve heard that men with erectile dysfunction use his voice as a Viagra supplement.
No, Not That Fiddy
One way to make a name for yourself in any musical genre is to piggyback on the names of the famous. It’s a simple process: famous name + other famous name = Instant fame for unoriginal loser. Take for instance, 50 Tyson here. He took the numerical name of Curtis “50 Cent” Jackson and a last name that instills fear in the hearts of men everywhere, in this case belonging to Cicely Tyson. Once you’ve completed the equation, forget about talent, because the checks will come rolling in. Unfortunately, this won’t work in literature, as seen by my pen name Hunter Seuss.
Drop the Beatbox, White Boyeeeeee
Rapping isn’t always about words, ya feel me? Some of the best rappers of all-time have been mutes. I bet you didn’t know that. Helen Keller? Platinum in 16 countries, including Vatican City. Rap is about laying down a vibe, and you may not be able to spit flames with your words, so do it with your actual spit. Beatboxing is a talent unlike any other. It takes just as much skill and is a sound in itself. This unnamed poet warrior shows us that the ultimate beatboxer is so good that when he’s finished he has to tell you what it was that he just did. Like when I took out my friend’s kidney and proclaimed, “Appendectomy!”
One Battle to Win the War
Rap battles are truly unique because competition is vital for two talented wordsmiths to expose their inner street beasts and thrive under pressure. Envy shows us that his name is much deserved, because I would cut off three of my testicles to have his talent. But the star here is young Eli Porter. Whereas Envy has skill and precision like a drunk landscaper, Eli shows us that he doesn’t even need words. When he goes silent, women get pregnant. And not like, “Oh snap, I’m pregnant” pregnant. They get like Octomom pregnant, ya heard?
Even Rappers Get Hungry
The poet Greg “Humpty Hump” Jacobs once rhymed, “I once got busy in a Burger King bathroom.” Sorry, Greg. But real rappers don’t fornicate in restaurants, they eat there. And they get extra points if they cook there, too. Monster With Da Fade makes me hungry with this rap about sausage and peppers. He makes me hungry for a phat rhyme and a sister with big ass all up in my face. If this guy isn’t headlining festivals by next year, then just kill me with high cholesterol.
Canadian Rap is Suparrrrrrr Fly
I’ll admit this isn’t a true-to-form Internet rap video, but MC Pirate didn’t become the greatest Canadian music artist since Celine Dion by performing at open mic nights in Manitoba. With the help of people who appreciate A) great rap music, 2) slick mutha f*ckin’ dance styles, and III) moose sex, MC Pirate will be one of the greatest rappers to ever live. But his only flaw is that he rhymes way too fast. He’s like Bone Thugz and Harmony on speed. That and he needs a feud to really get established. I’m thinking a British rapper named DJ Queen’s Armada. That’s some epic feuding, son.
Yo Son, You Just Got Schooled
If you had asked me 20 years ago if I wanted rap music that was full of both flava and education? I would have busted a cap in your hindquarters. Not literally, of course. I was only 5. If I shot anyone I’d have gone to juvenile hall for years until they found it suitable for me to serve out the rest of my time as an adult. By that point I’d have those tear drop tattoos and would probably be cornholed in the shower a few times and would ultimately embrace Islam. Upon my release I’d only be qualified to be a rapper or professional wrestler. I’d choose the latter and take on the character of an iron-fisted construction worker named Bricklayer. Wait, what was I talking about?
Thou Shalt Not Punk Da Lord
Rap and religion are like peanut butter and jelly – they go together in timeless accordance. In the beginning, God said, “Let there be Earff, son.” Or so I’ve learned from this rapping preacher, who appears to disagree with some of my views in life. But disagreements aside, we both agree that the only way to spread the Lord’s message is through angry, foul-mouthed verses. Hell, there’s a little known section of Psalms that most churches don’t touch upon because the Vatican imparted a Parochial Advisory: Explicit Lyrics label on it. Unfortunately, the Psizzalms, as written by St. Durrrty Deez Nutz, may never be seen again by non-church eyes.
Put Yo Funk In Da Upright Position
If you’re like me, you’re incredibly handsome. And you also hate flying. Thankfully, we have flight crew members like this gentleman who make the experience easier by lightening the mood before take-off. Awwww yeah, in case of a drop in cabin pressure, make sure to spit your hot rhymes before you help any children lay their game on some big booty hoes. Actually, I was on this flight. This guy is a great rapper for sure, but the flight ended up in a six-hour delay when I mistakenly yelled out, “YOU THE MOTHER F*CKING BOMB, YO!” Three cavity searches later I changed my rap game nickname to MC Can’t Sit Down.
Break Yo Neck and Cough
I’d like to get personal for a second, if you’ll allow me. *dims lights, turns on Sarah McLachlan’s “I Will Remember You”* When I was a little boy, I was diagnosed with terminal splurgatapharclitis. I didn’t feel sick, but after some blood tests, my pediatrician walked into the room and said, “Hey little Burnsy, I’ve got bad news” and he stabbed my dog. When I was done crying, he said, “You’re pretty much dead, kid.” For the sake of the story, I recovered fully on my own and nailed his wife. Dr. Clarke, though, is a rapping physician that cares about your health. You gots diabetes? Eat yo Wheaties. You gots the AIDS? He gots to get PAIDS. You sufferin’ from cancer? Well then you have my deepest condolences and I’m praying for your speedy recovery.
Finish What You Start, Son
I love violence in my rap music. Because I’m from the streets, man. I grew up surrounded by violence. My elementary school issued guns to poor kids so they could stay with the curve is busting caps. By 13 I was brewing and dealing my own crystal meth. That’s why when I see an artist like this just teasing me with hardcore imagery, I feel like he’s depriving the world of a window into the soul of white gangster rap. You can’t ever leave your fans hanging in the hip hop game. They will be missing mad flavor. Or chromosomes. Yeah, probably chromosomes.
Where the Ping Pong Balls Be?
As you’ll recall, I famously wrote about the poor mixture of sports and music, and I saved this video to remind aspiring rappers that it’s an especially dangerous combination when you’re starting out on your Internet path to hip hop stardom. But more importantly, in this case, ping pong isn’t sexy unless it involves a skirt, handcuffs, random targets and displaced air. If these girls want to turn the heat up and really pour on the sex appeal, I strongly recommend air hockey. Those handles spin for a reason, ladies.
Give the Sisters Their Due
Anyone who says that rap is a black man’s game hasn’t met Brea Hawk. Sure she’s old enough to be my slutty mom. And sure she’s not performing her own song. And sure she sounds like she gargled with pyrite, but Jayceon Taylor didn’t become the Game over night. I don’t know if Brea ever made it to the Apollo or not, but I really like to think she did. When she showed up, Steve Harvey introduced her while wearing one of his giant 14-button suits, and she came out to a standing ovation. From the men, of course. All the women weren’t having it. Then Sandman came out and did his dance. It was pretty awesome.
Yo Girl, I Feel Your Babble
Some famous rap stars made their careers off of their ability to make up words. Snoop Dogg has his -izzles. Master P had his random drawn out grunts. Matisyahu raps in Pig Latin. That’s why I think this little girl has a huge career ahead. She’ll rap her way through elementary school, shanking her rivals with sharpened puce Crayons. She’ll tear up her middle school teatherball court with fiery rhymes about pencil fighting and teen pregnancy. By high school, she’ll have run away from home to audition for labels in Los Angeles, attempting to fulfill her destiny. Don’t worry, though, her dad will have drank himself into a mental institution long before that.
Feel the Dog Poop, For Real
A good rapper can make you imagine a scenario. A great rapper can make you feel like you’re experiencing his life. Listening to this freestyle, I feel like I’m scooping up dog poop with this kid. I can feel the crunchy white dried up kind through the plastic bag on my hand. I haven’t felt this influenced by a child rapper since Lil Bow Wow really made me think that he could play in the NBA because of a pair of old sneakers. This kid will hit it big, but he’s still locked in a struggle with the estate of Old Dirty Bastard over the rights to the name Big Baby Dog Doody.
Nobody Likes a Liar
I’m only putting this video in here as a precautionary tale. Nobody likes a liar, kid. It’s clear that you’re not actually rapping. This is pathetic, actually. I’ve seen some sad rappers before – Vanilla Ice, Nelly, Eazy-E after he found out about the AIDS. But this kid is a whole new low in the rap game. At least Milli Vanilli eventually had the balls to admit that they were fakes. Last I heard, this kid is still going around pretending to rap and frauding his way into the dopest night clubs. In fact, he’s releasing his own vodka next month. I heard it’s the same as Ciroc, just oatmeal flavored. What a jerk.
Let Me Keep You Warm, T-Baby
Growing up on the mean streets of Coral Springs, Florida, I was a daily witness to the plight of middle class, suburban white kids who listened to rap. It reminds me of the time I bought a Cross Colors shirt at the mall to show everyone how urban I really was. I ended up only wearing it once because I didn’t realize it was a girl’s shirt. For three years, everyone at my high school called me Spinderella. I feel T-Baby’s pain in “So Cold in the D.” Hopefully one day she’ll respond to my request for a duet. It’ll be called “One Leg Rolled Up (on My Z. Cavaricci’s).” Respek.