Sorry, it's been quite a while since I blogged. I just can't bring myself to post if it's not relatively funny or worth it.* And I've been busy.** But today at work I started thinking of rap lyrics about my job. So they are. You may want to read this first, since it helps establish the environment.
Also remember that, as you're reading this, I'm wearing gold teeth and a lot of gold chains. And I'm all up in your grill. Sucka. I'd like to think that if I was actually rapping this live, it would be in the style of a Jay-Z or Dr. Octagon type rapper.
And I'm wearing one of these BLINGED-out watches. Which I acquired in Chinatown. But enough about shady business dealings in its purest, concentrated form. Here they are.***
Boxin' But No Knock-Outs
I'm unpacking boxes
And it ain't no fun—WORD
Do I put this in the first basement
Or does it go in the third?
I like tiny houses
And nativities and shepherds
I'm like Kanye with diamonds
only I got rocks with words!
This isn't a party
All I got is ma flow
Ma box cutter and marker
I'm a box-doctor on the go!
Now everything's checked in
I gotta get pricin'
So pass me the price gun
'Cause we gotsta get paid, son!
And here comes the boss man
With his loud shoes and voice, man
But I ain't got a choice, man
It's where all the checks land!
Maybe I'll get lunch
But the café looks busy
I swear there's no end to it
You know that's fo shizzee!
Then it hits 4:30
And I'm out like The Flash
Don't matter if I'm hurtin' none
'Cause at least I gots the cash!
Listen. I am very, very white. I mean no disrespect to rap culture by phrasing these lyrics the way I did. It's all love. You know that. Right, homie? It's all love.
* Andy is all dried up.
** Busy hating blogging and bloggers.
*** Lens flares added to increase street cred.