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| No idea who these characters are |
Names of certain current music artists provide us with a
disturbing, maybe unsettling, view of our youth. J-Master, Lil Dick, M&M, Lil N, and Doo
Fuss, are just samples of the names these clods think are cool.
It seems as though face-painted hair-band rock and rollers,
with their long hair, spandex britches, and boots with elevator soles and heels
have given way to a form of entertainment called “hip hop.”
Hip Hop “artists” come from all races and can easily be
identified by their baggy mismatched clothes, expensive sneakers, and ball caps
which absolutely must be worn sideways.
In addition, another accessory is a scowl.
A scowl is a usually good indicator of hemorrhoids but,
these musical stars wear this grimace like a badge of honor. It seems as though you have to look unhappy
if you are connected, in any way, with the Hip Hop genre. These performers and their body guards and
their main squeezes – actually the word these gentlemen use to more accurately refer
to these gussied-up women rhymes with “witches” – all of whom sport frowns,
too.
It is somewhat mysterious why all the glumness because these
folks make lots of money. Lots! Evidenced by their gold jewelry, oversized
timepieces, diamond earrings, and choice of expensive alcohol consumed in their
music videos, money seems to be of little concern.
In the event you have never seen a Hip Hop music video, they
all begin with the main rapper – lingo for poet who thinks he can sing –
sitting on a brownstone step with his homies.
“Homies” are simple minded morons who are mesmerized by this rapper’s
ability to put rhyming words together while bobbing his head as if he were
searching for pigs feet in a vat of boiling water.
He eventually makes it big and winds up driving to the music
venue in a Lamborghini or Bentley, depending on how many lackeys need to jump
out of this portable party. They
purposefully strut inside with copious over-made up women, with all the
entourage wearing glamorous fur coats and sun glasses.
With the microphone firmly wedged inside his mouth, the
bobbing and weaving continues with peculiar effeminate hand gestures. Eventually, the group heads to their crib,
another slang term for where people live.
Posh and well appointed, these cribs all contain a nicely stocked bar
replete with Waterford crystal, and an oversized hot tub.
Luckily, the entire group has their bathing suits on-hand
and climb into the spa. The body guards,
unfortunately, forget theirs and must stand nearby wearing their black leather
jackets along with their shades and frowns.
The busty women take to waving their arms above their heads until a
rival of some sort bursts in with their blazing “nines.” In this case, “nines” refers to 9mm
handguns.
Evidently, these rappers have a nefarious side, perhaps
related to drugs or some sort of fashion faux
pas, and a score needs to be settled, clearly with firepower and lots of it. Which begs the question: Why all the body guards?
It is a blessing that the rapper is unhurt. It is also a blessing there are so many more
busty women capable of waving their arms so that another music video can be
made.
This is what is called a “teaching moment.” Youngsters who gravitate to this type of
entertainment should be chastised for laughing at the poodle skirts, saddle
shoes, and bowling shirts of yore.
In no way should this be considered a slam against Hip Hop
or its fans. It should, however, serve
as a roadmap for anyone older than thirty to one of today’s musical choices. And you may now call me by my new name, Type
A Positive.
