Dear Hip Hop
Dear Hip Hop,
I live in a very large house and I own myriad automobiles. Did you hear about the recent sinkhole that opened up underneath the National Corvette Museum in Bowling Green, Kentucky and destroyed eight priceless, classic Corvettes? That was my museum. Several of my exotic pet snow leopards had escaped the night before and burrowed underneath the museum. I thought about stopping them, but then I was like, "fuck it. Let them have their fun." That's how much money I have. On a more somber note, the snow leopards were crushed during the museum cave in, but hey, there are still more than 4000 snow leopards left in the world, so what do I care? I'll just buy some more.
My initial success came from cocaine distribution, believe it or not. Smokeable cocaine in crystal form was particularly lucrative for me. The illegal narcotics distribution business is very competitive and I had to resort to unconventional methods in order to gain and retain market share. These methods included but were not limited to, shooting competitors in the face with a fully automatic assault weapon, throwing bottles full of burning, highly-flammable liquid through people's windows, blowing up the automobiles of rival factions with ignition-triggered IED-type devices, and hacking off the limbs of my enemies with a machete. One time I jumped the fence at Edwards Air Force Base, stole an F-22 Raptor, flew it back to LA and razed several city blocks using the on-board JDAM munitions. I guess I taught those kids a lesson or two about jacking the wheels off of a drug dealer's amphibious Bentley rocket car. It's true that I have since exited the narcotics industry in favor of legal and even more lucrative prospects, but don't think for a moment that I've lost a step when it comes to murdering people who double cross or annoy me. I can still jump into an AT-AT Imperial Walker and mow down rebel scum with the best of them.
But what am I up to now, you may be asking yourself. How is it that I've been able to build a 1:1 replica of the Eiffel Tower in my backyard constructed of solid gold with platinum rivets? How did I come about the means necessary to smoke thirteen metric tons of premium, pharmaceutical-grade dank every day? From whence do I have the financial resources required to monetarily incentivize Selena Gomez and Miley Cyrus to enter a cage and fight to the death? The answer is journalism. That may surprise you. You probably think of journalism as the way your younger brother, who now lives in your parents' basement, managed to blow through $180,000 in four-and-a-half years at St. Lawrence University with nothing more than hepatitis C and a part-time job as a barista to show for it. That's because your brother sucks at writing. I, on the other hand, am the greatest writer who ever lived. While I naturally pay homage to the greats such as Twain and Hemingway from time to time, the truth is that if we were to enter into a three-way prose battle, I would depart the duel with their metaphorically-severed nutsacks in tow. I am simply the greatest writer there ever was or ever will be. I had often pondered the probability of the eventual emergence of one who might supersede my talents at some point in the very distant future, but I've since discarded the idea. I am the literary Alpha and Omega. A word god, if you will. The rhetorical Messiah.
Woman are naturally attracted to my tremendous talent and material wealth. By the same token, my literary rivals often find themselves in the bitter clutches of envy's sour embrace. I can sympathize with their plight. The number of gorgeous women who want my genitals in their mouth is so great that I have been forced to set up an automated, numbered ticketing system to help manage the demand. The current wait time to fellate me is twenty-seven months and counting, and that only includes Victoria Secret models and Playmates. The bed I fall asleep on every night is a bundled bevy of gently slumbering naked women. Their luscious tits and asses provide a very comfortable sleeping surface although I will concede that it's not ideal with regards to spinal alignment. Luckily I am in perfect health and always will be.
I give my cash its own pocket money so it doesn't have to spend itself. I once filled the tires of my Hennessey Venom GT with Higgs boson particles because I was convinced it would provide better gas mileage (this was three years before the LHC). I am friends with Jonathan Larroquette. I am the wealthiest man in the world.
Allow me to describe my daily routine. Every morning I wake up and take a shower in 150-200 liters of Cristal (R) all of which flows from my body directly down the drain. I like to spend my mornings skiing on the west face of the Aiguille Rouge but I have an irrational fear of flying, so I take my private, 6000-mile, transatlantic hyperloop. The trip takes about ten minutes. I spend most afternoons taking luge lessons. I wear the traditional meat helmet. I like to dine with a different world leader every day so that I keep abreast of current affairs. Barack Obama calls me Mr. President and I call him Barry. Putin has yet to muster the emotional courage required to make eye-contact with me while speaking. After that I usually have to waste my evening picking up an award at some ceremony or social gathering of so-called "famous" people. I'm afraid of the dark so I typically sleep at my bio-domed resort villa on the bright side of the moon. The villa itself is a second-century Roman palace which I sent to the construction site by rocket, one marble slab at a time, where it was then reconstructed. My butler always brings me a mug of warm, unsweetened cocoa brewed in the classic Mesoamerican tradition as I am preparing myself to retire for the night. I recline upon the bosoms and buttocks of an exotic mix of Ukrainian and Croatian supermodels. I sip the rich, bitter hot chocolate as my butler, James Earl Jones, begins to read me my bedtime story. I can feel my eyelids growing heavy as I gaze upon the swirled bluish globe that is earth as it sets on the lunar horizon. A supermodel yawns and stretches somewhere at the bottom of the pile. And just before I set sail onto that starry sea of dreams I whisper to myself, "Jesus Christ. I am so fucking awesome."
Sincerely,
Lorde
(just kidding)
Sebastian Braff
I live in a very large house and I own myriad automobiles. Did you hear about the recent sinkhole that opened up underneath the National Corvette Museum in Bowling Green, Kentucky and destroyed eight priceless, classic Corvettes? That was my museum. Several of my exotic pet snow leopards had escaped the night before and burrowed underneath the museum. I thought about stopping them, but then I was like, "fuck it. Let them have their fun." That's how much money I have. On a more somber note, the snow leopards were crushed during the museum cave in, but hey, there are still more than 4000 snow leopards left in the world, so what do I care? I'll just buy some more.
My initial success came from cocaine distribution, believe it or not. Smokeable cocaine in crystal form was particularly lucrative for me. The illegal narcotics distribution business is very competitive and I had to resort to unconventional methods in order to gain and retain market share. These methods included but were not limited to, shooting competitors in the face with a fully automatic assault weapon, throwing bottles full of burning, highly-flammable liquid through people's windows, blowing up the automobiles of rival factions with ignition-triggered IED-type devices, and hacking off the limbs of my enemies with a machete. One time I jumped the fence at Edwards Air Force Base, stole an F-22 Raptor, flew it back to LA and razed several city blocks using the on-board JDAM munitions. I guess I taught those kids a lesson or two about jacking the wheels off of a drug dealer's amphibious Bentley rocket car. It's true that I have since exited the narcotics industry in favor of legal and even more lucrative prospects, but don't think for a moment that I've lost a step when it comes to murdering people who double cross or annoy me. I can still jump into an AT-AT Imperial Walker and mow down rebel scum with the best of them.
But what am I up to now, you may be asking yourself. How is it that I've been able to build a 1:1 replica of the Eiffel Tower in my backyard constructed of solid gold with platinum rivets? How did I come about the means necessary to smoke thirteen metric tons of premium, pharmaceutical-grade dank every day? From whence do I have the financial resources required to monetarily incentivize Selena Gomez and Miley Cyrus to enter a cage and fight to the death? The answer is journalism. That may surprise you. You probably think of journalism as the way your younger brother, who now lives in your parents' basement, managed to blow through $180,000 in four-and-a-half years at St. Lawrence University with nothing more than hepatitis C and a part-time job as a barista to show for it. That's because your brother sucks at writing. I, on the other hand, am the greatest writer who ever lived. While I naturally pay homage to the greats such as Twain and Hemingway from time to time, the truth is that if we were to enter into a three-way prose battle, I would depart the duel with their metaphorically-severed nutsacks in tow. I am simply the greatest writer there ever was or ever will be. I had often pondered the probability of the eventual emergence of one who might supersede my talents at some point in the very distant future, but I've since discarded the idea. I am the literary Alpha and Omega. A word god, if you will. The rhetorical Messiah.
Woman are naturally attracted to my tremendous talent and material wealth. By the same token, my literary rivals often find themselves in the bitter clutches of envy's sour embrace. I can sympathize with their plight. The number of gorgeous women who want my genitals in their mouth is so great that I have been forced to set up an automated, numbered ticketing system to help manage the demand. The current wait time to fellate me is twenty-seven months and counting, and that only includes Victoria Secret models and Playmates. The bed I fall asleep on every night is a bundled bevy of gently slumbering naked women. Their luscious tits and asses provide a very comfortable sleeping surface although I will concede that it's not ideal with regards to spinal alignment. Luckily I am in perfect health and always will be.
I give my cash its own pocket money so it doesn't have to spend itself. I once filled the tires of my Hennessey Venom GT with Higgs boson particles because I was convinced it would provide better gas mileage (this was three years before the LHC). I am friends with Jonathan Larroquette. I am the wealthiest man in the world.
 |
| Finally got around to remodeling the smaller of my two walk-in shoe closets. It was time. Should be able to start moving the shoes back in next week! |
Allow me to describe my daily routine. Every morning I wake up and take a shower in 150-200 liters of Cristal (R) all of which flows from my body directly down the drain. I like to spend my mornings skiing on the west face of the Aiguille Rouge but I have an irrational fear of flying, so I take my private, 6000-mile, transatlantic hyperloop. The trip takes about ten minutes. I spend most afternoons taking luge lessons. I wear the traditional meat helmet. I like to dine with a different world leader every day so that I keep abreast of current affairs. Barack Obama calls me Mr. President and I call him Barry. Putin has yet to muster the emotional courage required to make eye-contact with me while speaking. After that I usually have to waste my evening picking up an award at some ceremony or social gathering of so-called "famous" people. I'm afraid of the dark so I typically sleep at my bio-domed resort villa on the bright side of the moon. The villa itself is a second-century Roman palace which I sent to the construction site by rocket, one marble slab at a time, where it was then reconstructed. My butler always brings me a mug of warm, unsweetened cocoa brewed in the classic Mesoamerican tradition as I am preparing myself to retire for the night. I recline upon the bosoms and buttocks of an exotic mix of Ukrainian and Croatian supermodels. I sip the rich, bitter hot chocolate as my butler, James Earl Jones, begins to read me my bedtime story. I can feel my eyelids growing heavy as I gaze upon the swirled bluish globe that is earth as it sets on the lunar horizon. A supermodel yawns and stretches somewhere at the bottom of the pile. And just before I set sail onto that starry sea of dreams I whisper to myself, "Jesus Christ. I am so fucking awesome."
Sincerely,
Lorde
(just kidding)
Sebastian Braff
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