Whoza dummy?
[Sleazy-C's Studio, "Jobber, Jobberland, Bizatch"]
Trey Vincent and Sleazy-C are sitting at a mixing board. Sleazy-C looks a tad bit confused. He takes off his black sunglasses and raises his eyebrows. He flips his LA Dodgers hat around so it’s on backwards now. Then he shoves a hand deep down his baggy jeans.
“Hmm,” C wonders. “Play button, play button, play button.”
“You don’t know how to work this thing?”
“Sorry TV. I usually have some bitch ass I pay to do this shit, man. But TV-man, you know it ain’t like filling pot holes, if you know what I mean.”
They high-five.
“That was so clever, I bet nobody got that reference to filling a hole. I bet they wouldn’t even recognize it was a sex reference!”
“Well, phuck, they’all will now, Mr. Icon.”
Sleazy-C hits a button.
“Niggaz. Bitches. Blunts. 40s. Suck my dick. Big screen TV. Doggy style. Ho. These are among the words you will need to master if you want to be a master rapper.”
Sleazy-C hits another button and the tape stops.
“Hip-hop for dummies? On audio tape?” Trey asks.
“Sheet, man, do ya know how hard it is ta get old-schooled? It ain’t like there’s courses out there teachin ya how to be down, ya dig?”
“Stop saying that or I’m gonna kick your ass.”
“Phuck you man.”
“Fuck you JD.”
“Stop calling me that!”
“Or what?”
Sleazy-C stands up and pulls out his PP-47.
“Or I’ll shoot you with my squirt gun.”
Trey stands up. He spies something on the floor and picks it up.
A dustbuster?
“What da phuck are you gonna do with that?” Sleazy-C askz. “Suck on theze nutz, bitch?”
VROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMM!
Trey throws the dustbuster away. “You spray me, I’ll stop paying you. I’m bringing you to jOlt. I can get you national TV time. Maybe if you piss me off, you won’t be on Intense!”
“Fine. Wuzn’t gonna shoot you anywayz.”
They sit back down and Sleazy-C looks back over the buttons again. He pushes another one.
“I want to hear how our tune came out,” Trey says.
“I wanna start working on sum new shit, bro. When the boyz gunna git here? And why you alwayz treatin me like sheet.”
“Because it’s entertaining. To me.”
“You’re just jealous that I got juzt az much charizma az you but in a much smaller package. I may not be Mr. 6-foot-4, 265 poundz of sportz entertainment icon, but I am 5-4, 150 poundz of pure jobba, homez.”
“And if you just do what Trey Vincent tells you, you won’t be a jobba for life. You might actually get to win a match once in a while.”
“Man, I’ma be a jobba for life. Jobbaz my height don’t fight right. I ain’t no luchydore suicidal muthaphucka. I’m just a bump-taking, my-bonez-are-breaking and my bodyz achin scrubsta.”
“See, this is why you’re dumb. In 2002, you don’t need height to win. You don’t need talent to win. All you need is a weapon. Your precious PP-47.”
“Hmmm.”
“Get it?”
“No matter how tall, them bitchez all gonna fall, when I start unloading from the chamber of my PP-47.”
“God-damn! See. Fight dirty. Pull out the plastic and pee special. Then cheat, damn you. Cheat!”
“Dizamn, Trey. You damn right. Now wherez that engineer guy at? Why we gotta do theze for so long, man? Back in my prime, my longest RP wuz five wordz. The first wuz Somewhere. The second was you, the third was suck and the fourth was dark. Damn, I guess my longest was four words.”
“Dumb ass.”
“Phuck you Trey.”
“No fuck you C.”
“You wanna throw down,” he sayz pulling out his PP-47 again.
Trey rolls his eyes and looks up at the ceiling.
“What you see up there, brutha?”
“Just play ‘Fuck The LB.’”
“Can’t now. This RP is too long and we’re out of tim