free-style

I dropped my car off at the garage to get it looked at this morning, before work… I was meeting another guy there, who was going to do all the talking for me (as he is British, car-savvy, and male… thus less likely to get ripped off), and give me a ride into work.
As we leave the garage, he gets about 100 yards down the road and as I ask “Why is your car so squirrely?” as he proclaims “Daam it, sounds like I got a puncha!” He pulls over and sure enough, flat tire (or ‘puncher’ to the British folk). We turn around and head right back to the garage to get his car put in next to mine to get fixed… and call work to have somebody come pick us up.
Now, I’m going to be VERY careful here… I try not to blog about the things that make me angry or upset (at least not at specific people) and I try not to ‘dis’ people in my blog… but this is too funny a story to go untold.
There is this guy I work with… Without saying TOO much that might get me in trouble, I'll just describe him as a caricature of a real human being... hell bent on perpetuating stereotypes.
He pulls up to the garage to pick us up, music BLARING, bass thumping, window down, cigarette smoke pouring out, seat reclined as far as it will go (though he is hunched up over the steering wheel).
Now, just to make this clear, I ENJOY rap music. I like it. Not all of it, of course, but some, if not most. At first, I can’t quite figure out WHO exactly he is listening too… the rhymes seem very basic and lacking the creativity I usually enjoy, the beats are standard, the language is atrocious… 'n**** this and n**** that' and 'mutha f******' every time in between. After about a minute of listening, the voice starts to sound familiar… then VERY familiar. I ask,
“Who is this we’re listening to?…? …is this?…no…. it can’t be…. is this YOU?!?”
“Yeah, this is my rap. Hu hu hu…” (his laugh)
He ‘freestyles’ his own raps that he puts to music… burns them to cds… and listens to them (almost excusively) at TOP volume as he drives around.
His name is Ernest (how very gangster, I know)… but his rap name is MR E (not sure on the spelling there. My favourite quote from the 15 minutes of rap I was blessed with listening to is:
“they call me mr e, cause I’m a mystery, but there ain’t no mystery, ‘cause I’m mr E, and you can’t f*** with mr e, that ain’t no mystery” (swear to God)
I was laughing out loud almost the entire ride… not to be rude, but because I couldn’t really help it… I was desperately trying to remember as much of his ‘raps’ as I could because I wanted to quote them here… but every time I’d hear one that I was sure was as ridiculous as it could get… the next one would trump it.
Most of them I can’t write here because, as I mentioned, almost every other word was ‘n****’ or ‘mutha f*****’… but he did manage to mention sodomizing my mother, sister, and daughter (“I’ll do her in the butt, cause she’s a slut”)… all in the same rap, one right after another… he mentioned the difficulties of living on his ‘streets’ (he lives here in London, like me)… and he was VERY adamant about “we gon get to the top, cause we don’t stop”…
My favourite hook was “ass and titties!! ass and titties!! ass and titties!! a…” over and over and over and over (I kid you not).
After the fourth or fifth ‘track’ like this, I tried to explain why I was laughing so hard (without insulting his rap), I told him that I found it funny that he listens to himself so much… he countered with:
Him: “Do you ever write down poems?”
Me: “I’m not sure what you’re asking.”
Him: “Have you written down a poem?”
Me: “Uh, yes, I suppose so… when I was in high school.”
Him: “No, no. Have you writ one yourself?”
Me: “Yes, a few, for projects back in highschool.”
Him: “No, I mean now… do you write your own poems now?”
Me: “No, I’ve never been much of a poet.”
Him: “Whatever… yes you do. All chicks write poems. And when you write them don’t you read them back to yourself? Cause you enjoy reading what you wrote? … All chicks do that. Don’t lie. … Well, this is my poetry, and I want to listen to it as much as I can.”
Ignoring the sexist portion of that, I asked him if he thought that was a bit narcissistic… and mentioned he might consider expanding his musical selections. He then called me ‘close minded’ and said I was racist for calling him ‘egotistic’. The conversation continued:
Me: “I did NOT call you ‘egotistic’. I said ‘narcissistic’… which means you’re fascinated with yourself and love yourself… it’s not quite the same as ‘egotistic’. AND, what exactly did I say that was racist??”
He laughed and said “Now you’re backpedalling. Hu hu, that means I’m right.”

Why do I even bother?