fell leviathan, colonist army with purchase conceded to inevitability. recession, castellan, froths atop highest tide at the gates of versaille. "do you feel me?" reads the connotative closed captioning etched into the faces of hip hop's monetary elite.
"..held you down six summers, damn" muses one such exasperatedly, "i'm a six summer downholder. rucker game attender. i may or may not have the hand and comprehensive carnal understanding of be-yon-ce. it's sunshine shawn carter, baby. she's the hot one from destiny's child..'when no one is around you, say 'baby i love you..''"
the implicit "but" hangs in the air with omniscient toxicity tantamount to one of 50 cent's gastrointestinal translations of muscle milk, infamous deployments of weapons grade pepe lepieux. reverie takes a turn as caretaker during silent interim until jay dares let truth tiptoe through the tulips to slide, as so many memorable lyrical incantations, spontaneously between his bowling lane bumpers and off the top of his taste. "when i was hawking pastries in the trenches a black dude couldn't get a gig as the collegiate representative on the Dream Team. now a kenyan got the intercontinental kablooie codes," he expounds whistfully as if considering anew the agents of attrition laying siege to his career, pausing only to acknowledge the aggressive content billowing from the public address of 50's doodoo ducts. "we threw some celebratory shows 'cause i sold almost as many records as my stylist. roc nation, whatup. kids heard dead presidents, [and] said 'my god he's that dude.' kids heard my 'swagger like us' verse and said 'i wish my dad was that cool.' i'm visiting my ace up top like 'yo, emery they got telephones with the cd players and color screens and all that.' bleek trying to eat off a cameo appearance in the beauty shop sequel. [man], it's not gonna be no beauty shop sequel. surprised them bloggeteers ain't did my a capellas dirty with no american garnier remix album. i'm top 1 dead or alive and radio treats me like a cooperstown clay cast. my rocawear hang in the rafters at madison square. fuck i look like opening for ted nugent in mahfuckin muckleshoot?"
hip hop's commercial potential, say jigga and his fellow fortune fossils, been wilted even as its influence expanded throughout the globe. a little girl buys a t-shirt because it says "hannah montana" on it. a hip hop fan buys a tote bag because a rapper bought it because a corporate raider decided a rapper would buy it if it had a bunch of little LVs emblazoned on its cowcut canvas. the game, say the trio, done changt for the worse. according to thems, the invention of the internet stands as the most grievous misstep. each has admitted ambitions of weathering the world wide waning by solving the distribution dilemma by their own virtuous ingenuity. forbes favorites, tall israelis and nerdcore nerve centers gallop about the prairie trying to lasso the limewire to no avail, and hope of restorative resurgence seem ridic van dyke.
in the depths of this desperation is prototyped a paltry pace for man and a lebronian leap for mankind, a bounce in a bold new digital direction.
a hero's welcome for the returning foragers of the final frontier. substantive victories are enjoyed in two crucial theatres as a debilitative aneurysm and neato croak develop in lil' wayne's dimwit depository and the online oracles bid the old guard beware of a new dope. project blaxflame.
while conservative 'fraidy cats colored dax as a danger best dismissed or destroyed, a rogue wave of blogg pound beserkers planted themselves in the greener pastures yonder the pelvic-piece partition. labcoats were donned and the leaders of the new stool began the manufacturing of major money moves. with dax's armory of awkward giggles, fanciful delusions and painfully conspicuous insecurities the proven platform, a fellowship was formed to undertake the task of inserting the hip hop sensibilities that commercially relevant demographics loved most so as to digitally amalgamate a force to be reckoned with. they made it bigger, stronger, catchier than ever before.
they made it a monster. they made it wavy. they made it max b. built on the daxflame chassis for optimum performance in creepin on a camcorder come up, boss don biggaveli reigns as harlem's preeminent vendor of uniformly catchy hood chanthems. were the "hooker" mantle not already assigned as vocational descriptor in another medium of entertainment, next to his likeness would sit the dictionary definition. he combines the erratic demeanor of the developmentally delayed with a looney tunes lexicon and downright pathetic emotional volatility. inarguably a daxflame disciple, maxy was once a youtestube baby conceived in the imagination of a programmer who dared to chopnscrew dna samples from a fine whine wunderkind and champagne showerhead jim jones.
without apparent penchant for rhyme OR reason, max holds significant promise as an industry juggernaut. of course it all remains to be screened, but wavy crockett's impressive ringtone repertoire and knack for nonsense suggest a new hope has emerged in the fight to write quarterly guidances in black ink. ooooow
