Shitty Reviews

A Parody of Reality

Rap Music

Not to be confused with the illustrious hip hop, rap music sounds like what Asian men look like. If you’ve ever heard a woman talk incredibly fast without taking a breath, only to tell you some overly-saturated inane story full of pronouns and feces, then you likely grasp a smidgen of the pain that music centered around the same concept can bring the masses. There was a time in history when rap music was actually a positive aspect of the music industry; when “gangsta rap” was fresh, exciting, and new. Now, there’s an influx of “horrorcore,” and other such nonsense where the idea has switched from worthwhile music to talk about guns, bitches, and champagne.

Don’t get me wrong – I love firearms, surly bitches, and alcohol as much as the next guy, but there’s a difference between an adoration for something and a fiery desire to spit rhymes about shit anyone without a soul has consciously experienced. Try again, 50 Cent.

Eat shit.

Yeah, I don't either.

Yeah, I don't either.

There is very little hope left in the annals of rap music, with only a few shining examples that some people still, at least sometimes, get it. Nas hit a good shot with his last album, and though he’s a megadouche, Kanye West gives me hope that there might be some aspect of actual musical talent to music these days. There’s also the underground hip hop movements, aka Definitive Jux and Rhymesayers, two fantastic labels, respectively, but then you have, well, every other label.

Have you ever listened to a Jay-Z song? I’m going to assume no, because if you have managed to read this far, you obviously don’t listen to rap; rappers can’t read, they throw stones against a wall (I think they call them dice?) and try to rhyme their excitement when the police chase them out into the Atlantic City nightlife. Alright, let’s examine a stanza of lyrics from the Jay-Z song “Jigga That Nigga,” and see if we can’t comprehend his altruistic, and more so autistic, writing style:

Come on the track duh duh da-da
With a throwback jersey and a fitted
Might blow a bag of hershey in the sidd-ix
Or might take sips of army with a chidd-ick, I’m so sick widdit
Lampin in the Hamptons, the weekends man
The Stan Smith Adidas and the Campers
Or playin guts on the cruise, Hermes bow shoes
The Izod bucket on I’m so old school
Yellow wrist watch, Gucci flip flops
Six top model chicks, who is this hot?
J-A, ladies help me say it now
Y-Z, mami why you playin with me?
Ride with me, get high as me
It’s how it’s supposed to be, when you rollin with G’s, Hov’!
Back up in this bitch like whoa
Jigga get this whole bitch jumpin like six-fo’s

Okay, let’s try this, then:

Ejaculate on your high school track field, duh duh da-da (squeels from a retard, most likely)
Wearing the jersey of your favorite high school football team, and a tight (the thought ends here for some reason)
I might throw some shit, ironically, on Nikki Sixx
Or drink army soldiers (which isn’t gay when he does it), because I’m sick
I enjoy the warm glow of lamps on the weekend, bro
Shoes are also something I am fond of
And boats owned by mythological figures
I wear old buckets (?)
My watch is bright like the sun, and my shoes are gay like Elton
Six girls from America’s Next Top Model (the losers) must argue amongst themselves to discover if any are actually hot
Ja Rule is here now (?) and I need help saying it in English
Come for a ride in my Hummer, and please give me one, as well
You are supposed to blow me at all times when we are around one another (especially you, Ja)
I need to put this vehicle in reverse for an unknown reason
Oh, it’s because I like numbers

I’m being unfair to the rap community, I suppose. There are always gems sparkling in shit, especially if you eat a lot of glitter (I’m looking at you, Mariah), but that’s not to say that the genre as a whole is not in a horrible trouble. This could be solved pretty easily, however. How? Very simple. Matt Damon records a rap album.

Rolling through the N-Y with the hip of my crew, glock in my belt and shit on my shoe (Ben Affleck).

"Rolling through the N-Y with the hip of my crew, glock in my belt and shit on my shoe (Ben Affleck)."

Maybe I should take a time out here and try to talk about what I actually consider to be the difference between rap and hip hop. Hip hop is a very cultured style of music, where there is not only a focus on genuine instruments in the created music, but also meaningful, insightful lyrics. While bellowing “HUUUHHHWHAT” and “YEYAH” brings in cash, it doesn’t bring in respect. Unless you are retarded.

Rap is just that: money-grubbing concept music. Think All-American Rejects without the gorgeous, sparkling eyes, beautiful smiles, fantastic hair, and vaginas.

The "vagina" comment was unfortunately preemptive.

The "vagina" comment was unfortunately preemptive.

There is a saturated market for this kind of music, which is the most painful aspect of it. While Narnia is being overrun with Kevin Spaceys, there is a completely separate industry war going on right at our doorsteps, and no one seems to notice (or care). I have a proposal to fix this skirmish, however, and I believe it is the only plausible course of action:

Change the names of Detroit, Atlanta, Chicago, and Miami to Seattle.

Genius, isn’t it?

Of course, the idea that Seattle-inhabitants simply killing themselves for living in Seattle is silly and uncouth. To back up this claim, doctors created a disorder known as SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder). Basically, cold weather causes people to kill themselves. Ha ha, oh you crazy doctor bitches. So let me get this straight: being cold translates into a more powerful desire for suicide? Let’s examine this further:

"Nothing would end my pain more than a bullet to the brain."

"Nothing would end my pain more than a bullet to the brain."

"Holy fucking shit balls, it's hotter than Sandra Bullock. Take me back to depressing snow land of the future."

"Holy fucking shit balls, it's hotter than Sandra Bullock. Take me back to depressing snow land of the future."

Fuck that hokey bullshit. It’s not some disorder called SAD, it’s because the community in Seattle still hasn’t fully comes to grips with the shit-stain that was Nirvana. I forgave them years ago (around the time that Cobain handed them a bloody apology letter), but they just haven’t been able to move on. It’s sad, really. Now, it’s time to push that sadness onto the epicenters of shitty rap crushing this country in a veritable hurricane of anal expulsions.

I have plenty more to say, but I need to finish writing my e-mail to Matt Damon. Here’s what I’ve got so far:

“Dear Lord and Savior, Mattimus Damonus,

This letter is not worthy of your presence, but please, hear my words and take them into the eternal consideration of your black, cold heart. The world is in peril. The Kingdom of which you created with your heart-wrenching performance in The Legend of Bagger Vance is being smothered by a musical jackknife. Please, you must save us all from rap music.

Please let me suck your dick. PLEASE. FOR THE LOVE OF YOU.



I hope he likes it. Fuck rap music.


March 25, 2009 - Posted by | Shitty Reviewer

No comments yet.

Leave a Reply

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: