Epistle Whipped off of the album Da Libel Bible

Gotttta realize. I write dez mad rhymes fo a reason
Won't hear'm from ma lips cuz in da hood that's called treason
And biddies know I won't take dat chance
I type on ma board n i get in a trance
The beats in ma head the beast in ma threads
No slander, just libel
Got my eye on da FEDS
I'm a ruthless assasin but i got a pure heart
Won't pull tha triggah unless y'all give me a start
N I seen a lotta shit in ma 21 years
Ya, I'm a burgla, we all got carreers
But i neva been charged wit no B&E
Just an open door n i take what i see
So you'll see ma slug in da editing room
Can't get nuthin on me,been D.P.G. from da womb
Backspace Backspace I change da names
N you'll see it in print, i aint playin no games
Spit da truth like some suckah tryin'ta run from skid row
While ya up in yo crib wit some pimp coochie ho
Just know as I drop dat I'm a selfless poet
N if you fuck wit a playa, beez you betta know it
I'll pen yo Miss Demeana n I'll wrap it up nice
But you n I know, this shit don't happen twice

C-list celebrity

this shit so fucking fly
de-fy gravity i got a cavity
from them beats so soft n sweet
it's like a chocolate tree
it made a man of me
and you cant hannndle me
makin so much green
on that admission fee
suckas still rappin at Cannobie
busted bitches hatin rides like,"i just wanna sightsee"
while the betties in da back o'ma cadillac
like i'm a heart attack n you cant look back
yo shits so fuckn whack, it's like coke to crack
you think you blow the snow, but dat shits yel--low
we were toe-to-toe in this variety show
then i ripped ya bitch crocs wit ma stil-let-os
it made a man of me
and you cant hannndle me
you're like a manatee
and i'm the caspian sea
biddies in ma hood know im a killa bee
hate on fuckin strawberry
to the highest degree
these hits so na-ha-ha-sty
wrapped under the christmas tree
pimp you just wanna be me

HA-TALHI-YAZZIE the small singer

i used to think YAH-A-DA-HAL-YON-IH.
but then! gone! what a git
wait for it, and so i sit.
Fate throws me JISH-CHA
and this funny little devil
in his toils i spose i'll revel
so i sit a lil longer
and i ponder and i yawn-dur
not for the faint of heart
our movements, works of art
till i hear the word
from that little peppered bird
i scoff and i cough
i yell loudly, bugger off!
on a hunt for Navinchandra
where it's best to safely wander
into things and things knee deep
wondering if it's mine to keep
or for trade, 3 cards for 1
i won't sleep until it's done!
what's that over there?
do i dare?
who do i see?
a reflection; it's just me!
smiling and lookin fine
and my doctor's sippin wine!
but tomorrow
where will i be?
not like Wilde, in a tree?
i'm sure you'll all agree
(and you don't need your degree)
to understand
that you shouldn't land
or even fence
unless you are quite dense!
a Viola tricolor hortensis:
who's achieved a national consensus
for the best molassis kisses
reserved only for his missus
i fear a fellow too mellow
or a daisy of velvety yellow
because the fall will always come
and you're back to the principal sum
plus or minus a bottle of rum

THE MESSAGE IS L.U.V.

S'mesters windin down
papers stackin up
sixty dollah bagz
system's so corrup'
j-funk up da gut
no billz, i'm in a rut
fuckin ballz
i own deez halls
blow sum K, smoke a J
roll it up n' hit dat hay
Momz please, support ma steez
fo da Yay in may
hoez on they knees
ass is signed
"Yours truly,
John Marwood Cleese"
luv you always,
yo crack-baby T-Freeze (Benjamins plz)



Tryin to tin
Tryin to tin a
Pin up like dat Doogie Howsa
Wanna get up in his trouza
Not enough pre meds on campus
Up in herr, Im like a prayin mantis
They smokin too much danky dank
tryin ta dodge the daily shank
studyin up them ninety cent words
Im just tryin to tin dem smart, fly birds
HUSTLA

Trivial Pursuit? No, sir, I believe this is quite a serious matter.

Gather a group of your friends (preferably second stringers..you don't want to rob your good friends blind) and pull out a box of Trivial Pursuit cards. Challenge the squad to a friendly but potentially lucrative game of T.P. Don't appear too hasty or your plot will be foiled. Plot? Oh yes, I have gotten ahead of myself...


MAD LOOT VIA TRIVIAL PURSUIT: A SIMPLE AND INFORMATIVE GUIDE TO THE INTELLECTUAL GRAVY TRAIN



You may be slightly hesitant to spend your valuable free time with a pack of hyped up flash cards, and you may even have unpleasant memories of this game from childhood, as most of the questions are from an era before your time...but, believe me, this past time is an enjoyable and profitable one... and heck, you may even surprise yourself with the bit of useless knowledge that you have garnered from many painful years of schooling. Don't be naive though, this "knowledge" that you possess has very little to do with your success at this exercise in quick response.

There are two names you need to know. Only two. I'll let you salvage some of your pride with a few guesses. Who could it be?

Marcus Allen? Excellent guess, but no.

Jim Jones? Nope.


I'll give you a hint or two.

One of these fine characters shares a birthday (August 29, 1958) with a one Mr. Lenny Henry. Who?!

The other was the first US president whose name contains all of the letters that form the word “criminal.”

Here they are! The stars of Trivial Pursuit!

Richard Millhouse Nixon!


and Michael Jackson!

Okay, now here are some routine questions so you can practice shouting out each of their names with a look of surprised realization:

Who was the best man at the Liza Minelli-David Guest wedding?



answer: Michael Jackson!

What ex-president missed the slab of pork while showing off his ax-wielding skills to a group of Moscow
butchers?

answer: Richard Nixon!

Who is the main character in the early 90's game, "Moonwalker"

answer: Michael Jackson!

Which president, who resigned from office in 1974, is known for putting ketchup on his cottage cheese?


answer: Richard Nixon!

Now here are some wild cards:


What state’s gourmets devour 3.6 cans of Spam per second, double the rate of the rest of the U.S.?



answer: Hawaii

What does Simon Wiesenthal hunt?



answer: fugitive Nazis. egggcellent.

Now that I have supplied you with the tools for success, you just need to get out there sporto, and bring back some bacon. At five billz a game, you could be pulling out of your parent's driveway in a sweet new-to-you 83' Honda Civic in no time at all!


and now for some celebratory Magazine 60!

C'est Parfait !

In this happy valley, I am surrounded by multitudes of other 18-20-somethings that appear to share a common feeling of ambivalence. After long hours of dazed coffee-shop observation, I have decisively concluded that I am not alone in my quest for self-discernment. It is my opinion that one can not direct themselves in any which way if they can't at least imagine some sort of goal or situation that would please them. Well, as of Sunday, March 11, 2007, I have gained the ability to chronicle my perfect day. le sigh.

12:15 p.m.


I smile, yawn and stretch as I awake to beautiful sunshine and blue skies sifting in through my off-white draperies. In the corner of my decoratively cluttered and haphazard room I see my effortlessly healthy umbrella palm move slightly in the warm breeze that is passing through the room.
I put on my light linen robe and step out onto my balcony overlooking a beautiful viridian canopy. I pour myself a cup of jasmine green tea and sink into my perfectly worn-in chair.


1:30 p.m.

I dress and stroll out onto my front patio where my light blue helmet is resting on the table.

I put it under my arm and set off to meet my best friend, Ashley Paul, who is waiting patiently at our favorite cafe.

I have another cup of tea; this time I opt for Earl Grey with a tea-spoon of sugar. We discuss the ills and misfortunes of society, including Grigory Rasputin's undeserved reputation, the lack of tawdry historical fiction in bookshelves around the country, and, of course,hippies.


3:00 p.m.

Between the after-lunch break and 11:00 p.m., I complete 40 pages of my future best-selling autobiography, which is later turned into a video that plays on VH1: Movies that Rock
After pulling my new work out of my trusty old Underwood,we hit up the discotheques around the block.


4:45 a.m.

The epic dance moves look like they will never come to an end...until a wild candy raver pulls the fire alarm. We turn in at 5:00 a.m. and slip into a state of legendary unconsciousness.

Twas the perfect day, indeed.

Centaur Poaching

I have taken a handful of film classes at UMass in the past two years and have willingly exposed myself to the hordes of pseudo-intellectual bro-jobs that fill the various auditoriums and classrooms. I don't mean to take out my hunger/fatigue or just general bitterness on one person, but I'm going to. In my spiritual cinema class, which is located in Machmer Hall (i.e.: the most offensively maze-like building on campus with East and West Wings. quoi?!) there is the standard array of film geeks (this is not meant to be taken as an insult, as I am one myself) and a critical but very friendly professor of indistinguishable origin (Russia, Moldova? it is any one's guess)

So I finally make it to my film class, a little late, and take a seat in the back. I have to move a little to see the screen and try to snuggle into my sweater, as I am situated by a window. My professor is actually a really adorable old man but he can never figure out how to start the films regardless of how many times he has taught the course. I never mind, purely because there is no need to get all antsy about trivial things. It is not as though I have anything better to do on a Monday night. So we are all just hanging back, waiting to see Pickpocket, and this kid that sits in the front of the classroom(who looks like a centaur) starts rolling his eyes obnoxiously at the class because my professor can't figure out which button to press. It is this first impression that I have carried with me as I harshly criticize his character in all of my following classes (via angry blog).

The class is pretty interactive as far as film courses go. There is a viewing once a week, and then the next day, there is a discussion. We are all responsible for presenting a film analysis, etc etc throughout the term.

Without fail, at least five times during every class, this kid will interrupt whoever is speaking to enlighten us with his superior knowledge on the "essence of film." I'm not a very hateful person, but something about him makes me what to commit violent crimes. He sits straight up in his chair, throws back his mane like hair, crosses his leg and starts spewing all of this incorrect unintelligible filmic word vomit.

What should have been the death of the last centaur.

I highly doubt he has even seen more than one Bergman film in his entire life, let alone reign as the supreme barren of knowledge in Ingmar's cabinet of consultants. Not only does he repulse me intellectually, but he always winks (!) at me during class. I was unaware that this was still a living practice. For now, I suppose I will just stick with my air of distaste and start carrying anti-pseudo-intellectual-centaur mace. All of this negativity is putting me in a bad mood, but I'm sure there will be more on this topic in the weeks to come. Hopefully the focus will just be shifted from creeps towards mythological beasts, as they are far more exciting.

pass a glass of that groupie-hatorade®

The term is thrown around quite loosely. "Groupie" You know, the sassy chick at the show hanging all over the mediocre bassist, Hanes-her-Way nylons pulling together her postured mirage of bare-legged brilliance. You resent her a little as you sit along the back wall in your classy corduroy slacks and modest, but tight, v-neck shirt. You ask yourself, "When will these back-stage stallions get a hold of that golden egg of fame that will make all of those impromptu gyno visits worthwhile in the end?" You resignedly think, "I can rely on my superior health to get me through my young twenties." Chin up, nose down. It's the name of the game.
Now don't be hasty, dear reader, for I am not about to litter your screen with anti-groupie propaganda. I am, in fact, here to shed some light on the fine art of reeling in those musically inclined honeys without irritating the Christian volcano of remorse. Perhaps the lava will stir, but I can confidently vow that the casualties will not reach that of Mount Pinatubo.

Step 1: Research.
Like any worthwhile project, this requires a little bit of work. No pain, no gain. You must peruse the web or newspaper for upcoming shows featuring the artists of your choosing. Now, just showing up to these events will barely get you past the doors with a balance of -20 dollars. You have to make contact whilst remaining classy. Send an e-mail to the band asking a boring and schedule related question, such as "hey guys, I noticed that your band will be touring through Northampton, but I didn't catch the dates, mind sending me some info?" That seemingly simple and casual gem is worth its weight in gold. And that is just the first step, friends.

Step 2: Where the perks start perking.

Now that you know where and when the festivities are taking place, you need to start thinking about the how’s. Your previous message, being concise, sharp and witty surely garnered a response from, at the very least, the drummer. Now, you must utilize some networking skills to get yourself onto the guest list. Usually, it is a wise idea to simply ask if they have extra spots, but if it is a well-known, or local band you may run into a problem. It is at this point where you must pull a Pamela Des Barres and steal their hearts. Unfortunately, we live in a technologically advanced and impersonal age, so there will be no pre-show meeting in which to work your magic.

Step 3: Forfeit all dignity.

Well, do you want to meet the band or not? No one will mention this at the after-party or future shows, it’s just something you have to do: be their Myspace pen pal. I know, this will strip you of all of your “I’m too cool for the interweb” pretensions, but it is undeniably à la mode. Now go young grasshoppers. Exert your zeal on the musical population and bring us back a winner.