By hexmurda
I don't hate Drake.
There, I said
it.
Don't know the dude, never met him. I think he's a talented
cat, rappin' and actin' and sangin' and all that.
He's even got
the only record spinnin' on urban radio that I don't hate more than the KKK
hates Obama.
But that doesn't make him the savior of Hip-Hop.
Not by a longshot.
However, apparently some real
CEO's (not the n****as in your hood with business cards for their record label
and their car wash, with numbers scratched out) these n****as inhabit whole
floors of skyscrapers and have anointed Drake "NEXT."
I can see it
now, intra-office memos written in invisible ink, phone calls where coded
phrases like "bury the sun" are uttered, secret communiques transported by
carrier pigeon.
Clandestine meetings on park benches where
identical briefcases are exchanged. Limos pulling up to a rinky dink bodega in
Brooklyn, with the shrouded occupants going through a hidden door behind the
counter, down a secret passageway lined with platinum plaques. The passage
leading to an underground fortress, that either looks like a witches' coven or
the f***ing NORAD bunker.
They're all here.
All of
them.
Morris. Bronfman. Cohen. Rhone. Liles. Reid. Greenwald.
Iovine.
All of them.
Sitting in thrones at a huge
table carved out of an ancient oak tree, drinking from golden goblets filled
with a substance that bears an uncanny resemblance to blood.
These
are the people who make the decisions. They decide whose careers thrive and who
ends up on a f***ing milk carton in XXL.
These are the folks who
operate the proverbial "MACHINE," and they can George Bush the button whenever
they feel like it.
And they have convened for one reason, and one
reason only.
DRAKE.
Yeah, that sounds like some real
Skull and Bones bulls**t, right?
No comments:
Post a Comment