Allow me to explain, Constant Reader, you of unimaginable patience, you Saint, you who allows me these flights of macabre fancy, pretend play, me forgetting I work in a cube. You see, I freestyle rap - almost anywhere really, but mostly in my truck, driving at reasonable speeds to only a handful of places. I rap in funny voices, I rap in that Brooklyn black tilt that all white braggadocios employ. I say obscene, confusing things, to an imaginary beat thumping off in the distance.
All rappers have a Hook - a line that they come back to when drawing a temporary blank, a stutter step, the Um, Like, Ah, and Oh of the battling set. I've heard mixtapes where some enterprising youths will repeat something as inspirational as "Believe that", or something as guttural as "Ah fuck shyeah." What is my drive-time battle rap hook?
Spread Your Butt Cheeks.
Such a satisfying click - everything wonderful rhymes with cheek. Freak, speak, meek, week. Accounting for near-rhymes - and all poets, from John Donne to Big Pun, must - we have teet, repeat, heat, keep. Do you see how the rap writes itself?!
Last week, Austin was hot and the windows were down. They so rarely are. During one particularly monumental session, while shouting something about fucking and bitch and popsicles and stir-fry, I became clouded, and yelled Spread Your Butt Cheeks! like Eminem staring in that bathroom mirror, flame-thrower in hand. I didn't see the biker within earshot, whose mouth fell open. I thought I'd nearly knocked Lance Armstrong from his racer.
If only they could understand an artist at work.
omfg i actually LOLed. good one.
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