Once all the men die out we can rest assured some balance will finally come rolling down the hills. The dreams of men would be carried forward, from where women would pick up the pieces. Standing on top of a mound would sing an out-of-tune girl by the name of Bunny Rabbit, wearing a pink velveteen dress, carrying a cuddly toy.
Hip Hop purists will tell you the production is weak and that the rhymes are sketchy, which they are, though it is exactly this type of sketchiness that frees itself to act through impulse rather than any boxy tribal orientation. Still though they say it's Hip Hop. “Everything that is made right now, whether it’s architecture or clothing is hip hop influenced,” Black Cracker says. “Rather than fading it’s almost coming into its natural state because it’s becoming totally integrated – it’s less exploited and looked on as this other thing. And now we can experience it in ways we didn’t even realise.”
There’s a thin line between paradise and hell, as though both poles brush together, one only able to exist in the presence of the other. Beyond the veneer of idyllic beaches and Hawaiian girls are maggots festering beneath stones, on corners, in holes. And stained glass windows are filled with pornographic images of women getting sucked off.
The women from the dark dreams Kool Keith’s Sex Style album are coming with peach golden arrows laced in tampon butter. You can call me sexist I don't care. I love these girls.
“Big shout out to all the Kleenex constituents all around the world, everybody crying on a daily basis. Whether you drink tea, water or coffee – wait, wait, PG Tips. Whether its two bags, two sugars and a lot of cream or whatever, hopefully you’ll still wanna hang out, drink, and party, and cry with us... you know mush around.”
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