Thursday, February 9, 2012

Hip-Hop is Our Only Hope

The Gross Domestic Product of the United States is in the red, the numerous unemployed are considering Anarchy and the value of the dollar is so low it's more profitable to shoplift liquor than rob a bank. The outlook is a tad bit bleak. The 5 year plan of most is to simply stay a step ahead of suicidal-inducing debt. Of course, not everyone is circling the drain.

Remarkably, the hip-hop artist has felt none of the plight affecting the rest of world. According to every fresh-beat practitioner and lyric spitter, they're reporting (representing) record amounts of wealth. Their lyrics speak of "stacks of Benjamins", successful sale of illicit drugs and massive spending on luxury items. Sure they speak of the occasional "chickenhead that tests they patience", but bitches be crazy. We all know dat.

I recently purchased a mix tape/CD from a rapper in the Wal-Mart parking lot. Even though the quality and production of the recording is total bush-league, his lyrics speak of throwing money at strip club employees, profitable racketeering and the lobster he takes home in foil swans. I've noticed it helps to spend a great deal of money on ill-fitting clothing with a dash of violence tossed towards women.

So the question remains, why don't we employ every last one of these successful individuals. Put them in office. Hand our government over to them so they can right the ship. They've figured out how to overcome the economic enigma that puzzles our elected officials. All these singers, rappers and producers need for revenue is, "a mic in they hands."

The entrepreneur/record mogul I met in the Wal-Mart parking lot told me he was "keeping it real", and I believed him. "They won't let me sell my shit near the door, but they let those Girl Scouts sell they cookies all day long. That old-ass door greeter is racist," said the record mogul as I loaded a ridiculous amount of generic off-brand cereal into my car. It's hard to believe the geriatric man that gave me a smiley-face sticker is evil, but racists are a lot like cross-dressers. They often reveal their true self in the bathroom or at a Klan meeting.

It really was amazing the success this artist had achieved despite the amount of oppression he had to overcome. They can virtually perfect their money-making craft in any habitat. It was inspiring. Every time a bell rings an angel gets its wings and every time a computer is purchased a music producer is born. After that, unbridled positive cash flow to follow.

So it's time to jump on the band-wagon with sick 24 inch blades. It's time to chase a dream my friends. It's time to put words together where the last word in the sentence rhymes with the one before it. My hope is to unleash my musical talents on the public. Like a blind-drunk frat boy pissing on an ant hill, I will flood the underground.

I've done Karaoke on the toilet in the past, but this time it's for real. The acoustics in the shitter are magical. With that said, the restroom shall be my recording studio. Add a little dash of Garage Band to produce my beats and then I make it rain (dollar bills).

So, down with the haters, up with the players. Here's my first music video about how tense it can get during a dance-fight at the club. I will know be known as Talcolm X aka Kalgone.

I went ahead and did a "Behind the Music" for when I mess it all up. The marketing machine is demanding. Real talk.