I wouldn’t consider myself a rap connoisseur. I don’t dig rap that much. It is kind of strange to recite a poem with some monotonous background music and then call yourself an artist. Why not just try and carry a tune like normal people do?
I have been told I also tend to speak at the speed of light and I’m certainly not a rapper as I don’t wear my pants low enough.
But there is something about this song, something about it that screams FUN! The first time I heard it, I thought it to be slightly annoying. But it grew on me like a hair on your back that you forgot about. Only to be reminded about it on the first day of summer when you take your shirt off in public and unveil the 2 m long grey hair trailing behind you. Now say it with me: “Eeewww”. (It’s only a hair, deal with it.)
I’m wondering why this song by Rappin’ Barbie makes me feel like a big, black, buff gangsta. As Iggy from down under, starts doing her thing, in the weirdest English accent known to man, *insert woo dat woo dat* I slide down my tinted window of my pimped up vehicle and lean my thick, muscular fore-arm on the door. Look Mom, one hand. My blinged-up fingers glimmer in the sun as a tap to the beat. I flex, because I can, I’m that cool.
My twenty-three gold chains bang rhythmically against my broad chest as I bob my head slowly to the bass beat. I slide my NY-cap to the side, lift my shades just in time to wink at the bootylicious thing crossing the street. I bet she can twerk her ass off. Therefore I holler. She looks over her shoulder, giving me a sultry look, then no surprise, she winks back. Damn I’m fine.
I flex my bicep again. I’m considering another tattoo on my lower arm, as it will balance nicely with the twelve I have on my upper arm. Where’s my juice?
Unfortunately, the songs stop and the kids get out of the SUV. The middle-aged, white, suburban father backs out of the school parking bay and drive to work, with a sheepishly happy grin on his face.
Yo Iggy, thanks for the ride, t’was good…