paper tiger

halfway done with a chum's term paper, pursuing this pocket tender like you should in times of lunch recess, i found meself swamped in a dark alleyway between the blighted high-rises of writer's block without secular inspiration or the 50 spot necessary for an 8th of bozeman bloom.

^did he just flip young jeezy and a millie friedman into the same word stew? past tense is right! get this kid a deal!

^did he just have an out of body experience as the robot homie from mystery science theatre 3000? how we gon' eat? get this kid a meal!

^that's ja's little punk ass thinking out loud. the difference between me and him is that when i'm in one of those moods where the ms word paper clip tells me that the thrill is gone, i don't start trying to hit notes.

[mook]now back to regularly scheduled programming[/mook]

so there i slouched, mired in a literary studies bammerlock so so def that mental distress signals were blaring right in tune with painful memories of flogging molly fiddles and the 80 dubloons spent for their sake. i didn't think i was going to get it done. worse still, my most reliable sources of creative inspiration were menacingly meh. like the dwarves 'neath caradras, i had delved too deeply into billups's collection of open letters to jay-z (if you're ready for the good news, check that out) and brought about my own gloom. n0 balrog, babe, just boredom. AN' THEN WHA? i hastened to the proof, only to find lameness beyond my wildest dreams ("if they're your wildest, why in heaven's name are they lame?" zippit).

a few north end numbskulls, to my best guess, had ransacked the lynwood community center storage locker that houses the props for everett events center's annual civil war reenactment and proceeded to fire off blanks until the cows came home, scaring the proof proper back to their hidey holes irl. noobs.

hopelessly dismayed at the exhaustion of my happy-place hotsprings, i ate an orange and listened to the temptations channel on last.fm. both cool. that's when it came to me (thank YOU gladys knight). when the time comes to make a hit, you turn your back on the basics. you do what jim jones does. you listen to a guy who kissed foxy brown enough times for jay's seed to germinate in his throat and convince yourself that you, not mr. hanky, are the preeminent piece of poop.

this dude got my brain digressing. the essence of adolescence was me in muggsy's backyard playing jake 1 on 1 (the van was more of a john deere green). he was gary payton. i decided that, as a matter of course, he who aspires toward the "w" should imitate da bess. "i'm michael jordan," i said. "it's hova the god, sprinkled with some wacky wayne sensibilities," clemm rishad said. i don't mind this guy's music on the surface level, which for the lesser nerd has to be the most important. the way this guy vocally defines his cadences with jay's stuttering, dispassionate whisper and marries them with lord lollipop's goof troop punchlines, though, kinda offends me. not that he's without codefendants. i just watched corey gunz perpetrate the same thang, minus a few teaspoons of marcy's millions, and casual perusal of hiphopgame's audio section means the unearthing of a lot of dynasty director steez leeching (i wish i was famous enough to launch that to your lexicon, haunt cats when the teks is drawn, make calls make money like a pbs telethon, stop biting chopped writings, you are not a tenth of shawn). unfawchoonitlie, deez nuts ooze the overdesign of present day jay and boast no credentials for the swagger stripes they rap about for at least 12 bars per song without fail. the beats are cool.

so i forged this paper of sweat, blood and 2 myspace mess. the guy in byrdgang, like my own term paper, is hand---------------------------hand much better. shoutout to the good folks in the culbertson hall cafeteria. they pronounced the salmon game dead. i tried to talk to 'em. they couldn't know you would come through with those copper river exclusives. nxnw