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Jay-Z Basically Just Sits There Wishing He Was Half This Good at Rapping

August 14, 2011

Our Daily Beard turned two yesterday. Astonishing! You’d think I’d have stopped this crap by now!

Meanwhile, this past Tuesday, Jay-Z and Kanye West finally released their long-anticipated album. Lyrically it’s not as memorable as some of their previous joints and tracks, and I don’t think I’ll ever be able to take Yeezy seriously when he claims to be a proponent of “black excellence,” what with the weird Hitler rants and the cocky stunts and the pussy obsession that would put Krazee-Eyez Killah to shame–but Hova is classy enough for the both of them, and you cannot argue with the beats.

I sometimes wish I looked/acted the part a little more so I could be taken seriously as a hip-hop superstar. But we all have our destinies, I guess. It’s looking like mine is just to teach English and be a part-time rap lyricist on my days off.

TURN MY HEADPHONES UP.

TURN THEM UP LOUDER.

THAT ISN’T LOUD ENOUGH.

I’M FUCKING SERIOUS.

I WOULD LIKE THE FUCKING VOLUME TO BE LOUDER THAN THAT PLEASE.

MUTHAFUCKA, IT AIN’T DIFFICULT.

TURN THE DIAL CLOCKWISE.

YOU NEED TO DEVELOP YOUR TECHNOLOGY SKILLS.

UNGHH.

WHAAAT?

My prosody’s undyin’

and my language is Dickensian.

Bitch, you know that I ain’t Lyon

when I tell you I’m Mackenziein’.

Gangstas call me Stephen Harper, I’m so crazy ‘bout cheddar.

My bad lyrics are good and my worse ones are better.

Any chick I ain’t yet bedded, you can bet I ain’t met her.

My cred is obscene, my wallet’s green like asparagus,

your credit’s lower than America’s,

hilarious;

You scared because

I’m triple-def, whereas

your standard’s so poor,

you’d get a triple F

from Standard & Poor’s.

I’m the commander of tours,

my mansion’s grander than yours,

you’re so desperate for affection that you pander to whores.

No flow is blander than yours.

Your rap is crap ‘cause you don’t understand metaphors.

Your words die,

my words high

like birds fly.

The view from my penthouse is a bird’s-eye.

I’m droppin’ my slick white shit like a sick seagull–

no: like a ill eagle.

My vocabulary’s

so killer it’s illegal;

call the constabulary.

I fly by in my fly Benz,

I blast past the sirens.

Goddess on a odyssey, I won’t stop ‘til pi ends.

(It goes three point one four,

then infinity more.)

[30 seconds of assorted sirens and random sounds made by guest performers while a crazy bassline pumps in the background]

I’m lookin’ good but you wack.

I got my hook in you, jack.

Canadian, Pacific, yeah all day I’m layin’ track.

All night I’m playin’

on my back in the sack. Do you know what I’m sayin’?

Shorty aimin’ for some game? You don’t even have to ask me.

Dear, I’ll make you say my name like my name was Bill Brasky.

Seduce you with my tender eyes,

tenderize you like venison.

You bet it’s fun

full frontal snoggin’ on that noggin–

ain’t that right, Louise Rennison?

(Unghh, sometimes my preference is

for references

obscure like Euripides’ Cyclops,

not clear like antihistamine eye drops.

But even when a line flops

like the barges down in the river (drip, drop),

y’all still dance like Hippocleides on a table for my hip-hop.

MY HEADPHONES COULD STILL STAND TO BE LOUDER.

PLEASE TAKE A LOOK AT THE INSTRUCTION MANUAL.

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One Comment leave one →
  1. Pep Ventura permalink
    August 21, 2011 9:13 pm

    οὐ φροντὶς Ἱπποκλείδῃ

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