KANYE WEST Sucks At Rap
KANYE WEST Sucks At Rap
To justify this claim, all we really need to do is consider what rap is. In the first place rap is poetry. Perhaps in today's culture street poetry might sound insulting, but then again to others this terminology might indeed be flattering. Whatever rap is it descends from antiquity; all the way back to the celtic bards (visit wikipedia and look up bard) who were patrons to high nobleman, and Kings. These patrons were called bards "from the celtic word bardos, meaing to raise the voice; or praise" (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bard) presumably because music was to accompany their poetic rhymes. They were hired more or less as servants, but some of them reached legendary and even noble status, such as William Shakespeare who at the end of his life owned a large estate. (visit wikipedia if you don't believe me - and god knows whatever you read on the internet is correct *sigh*).
But how do we prove Kanye West sucks at rap? If we assume that his popularity means that he is good, then we must also assume that alcohol is good because it is popular; but clearly sometimes what is popular is not good at all, and this could be what tells us the difference between good judgment and poor judgment. From Kayne West's extensive library, what I read is a lot of gibberish! What a poem, in the first place, is to do is create inspiration. Some of us may know inspiration from the tingling on our necks, or the rush of blood that attends a historic moment. For instance, when the speech of St. Crispin's day is recited in Shakespeare's Henry V by Henry V himself as he is getting his countrymen ready to rally behind him just before a charge against the host of the oncoming French army is made (use link below):
Or the poetry beginning Charles Dicken's infamous novel A Tale of Two Cities (use link below):
Compare these brilliant passages with Kayne West's lyrical nonsense, which he probably scribbled on a napkin while he was high on weed, and while a stripper was probably napping in an eight ball of cocaine on his bed (use link below):
It's too painful to read more. Anyhow, I think it is safe to assume that Kanye West could use some education or as he'd probably say it himself "EDUMACTION" particularly when it comes to the application of verse to his music. The reader can hardly feel anything when they look upon his writing. Keep in mind that most poetry is for a book of some kind. You can hear no music rush from the page. It is only your imagination which can stir the senses, and of course the skill of the poet. And if we are to grade Kanye West on his written word alone, we might consider him not to be too far from a child just graduating kindergarten. Again, we must remember the main purpose of poetry is inspiration: just as a sun which does not shine is not a sun, a poem which does not inspire is not a poem at all. And I pray for the sake of us all that Kayne West is never remembered as a poet.... a gun flashing wannabe rapper maybe... but a poet, NEVER!
In the latest news with Kanye, here is an interview I had with the infamous rapper back on December 24th just hours before Santa was to deliver presents across the globe; and here is how it turned out for all of you Kanye West fans out there:
Sally field (my secretary) was just putting out the morning paper when the clatter of her feet reminded me of horse hoofs. I said: "Sounding mighty heavy today," Sally just laughed. It was not a hysterical laugh, just a soft sarcastic one: "I ought to give you a good punch for that," she said, and then as she put the paper upon my desk my Starbucks coffee toppled over and drenched my brown kaki pants; "Nice one," I said reaching for the box of tissues: "What's cooking today?" I asked. Sally replied: "Looks like you've got a full plate today. Kanye West wants to do dinner with you."
I thought to myself, "what was with all of these rappers wanting to do interviews with me? What had I done recently to deserve all of this stupidity? When was the Dali Lama going to call? Or Gandhi's ghost?" I replied: "Fine. Where am I meeting this retard?"
Sally replied: "He wants you to meet him outside Mount Sinai Memorial Hospital just at the corner of Glendale and Roosevelt. His mother just got her breasts done, and he's getting a penile enlargement."
Ah, so it was true after all! black men did not have the largest carrot in the carrot patch. At least, that is what I saw whenever I went to the gym locker room. I said: "Sally, I have been to the gym enough times to see that black men do not have the BIGGEST-" At this moment, Sally cut me off: "What are you doing looking at other guys 'you know what's?'I swear to God I don't know who you are sometimes! Looking below the belt, how could you?"
I think she questioned my sexuality for a minute until I justified my actions by telling her that she must have had the same curiosities with women: "Are you never curious to see how big a woman's nipples are?" I said, making a perverted gesture with my hands. "If I were in that locker room with you I'd make sure to bring a diary. It would be a whole scientific affair."
Sally replied: "Oh, I have no doubt of that. You'd probably bring a measuring tape just to make sure all of the measurements were correct. Anyhow, you'd better get going. You don't want to be late. I hear Kanye has a thing with punctuality."
I changed my pants. I did not want to show up with a giant stain although I was expecting to find Kanye with a cast around his groin. I could only imagine what a penile enlargement operation would look like. Would he be limping? Would he have a giant bandage protruding from his hospital garments? These kinds of thoughts raced through my mind as I got into my Jaguar and drove to Glendale and Roosevelt.
When I got there, I could not find Kanye or his mother anywhere. I was expecting to see him hollering and screaming. Any time he has been on television he has ranted; but mostly it has been about racism or how brilliant he is. Even his mother I was expecting to see with her new $20,000 breasts, but they were nowhere to be found.
So I went up to a nurse. Her name was Irene. She gave me a bit of attitude when I tapped her on the shoulder, but she told me that Kanye and his mother were out back in the parking lot waiting for their limo driver Chuck. Immediately, I jogged to meet them. The parking lot was pretty crowded. I was looking over people's heads' like I was at a sporting event trying to find my seat, but then I saw Kanye. He was standing at a wall facing it. He had his legs spread and all I could see was water pouring down the side of the wall. Was it water? I rubbed my eyes to be sure. Oh no, was he doing what I thought he was doing? Yes, he was going to the bathroom in public.
I shouted: "Kanye! You didn't make enough money on your last record deal to pee behind closed doors? The new graffiti is what you're going for, I guess. You know, it costs nothing to pee in a public bathroom."
He replied: "One thing you gonna' learn about me, son, is that I do what I want when I want. If it ain't magic, then I don't do it. And if it is what I'm told to do, then I ain't listenin'. I'm a player, and I play the game. I ain't no chump, you know what I'm sayin'?"
"Fair enough," I said: "So that would make you pro-abortion, or-"
Then Kanye replied: "I don't do babies, just like I don't do condoms."
I said, as Kanye was pointing his deadly weapon at me: "I'm not sure how you're going to find a condom big enough for that thing. I think you'd qualify to be one of the X-men. You'd better give Dr. Xavier a call to see if he has any openings-"
Everyone could see what kind of an abomination Kanye had become. At once, I thought about Frankenstein: "Why would he do this to himself," I thought. But I suppose it is what people do when they are bored. You hear all the time how rich people do strange things to their body; things that average people would never do. It is as though they have lost touch with who they are. The child that once asked his mommy for cookies was now slicing his private parts to make it bigger.
Just as I was thinking this heinous thought, a loud cry came from behind. We both turned, and Kanye dragged his deformed elephant trunk along the ground:
"Kanye!"-two large watermelons bounced in the air. They were like two giant slabs of beef tenderloins right before they are tossed onto the barbeque: "Kanye!"-the voice rose in its pitch as my stomach growled almost like it was about to throw up this morning's breakfast. It was Kanye's mother. I was sure her name was Bertha but it was Beth, short for Elizabeth.
"Mom's!" cried Kanye, happy to see his mother. She looked like a wild elephant about ready to stampede over a town of helpless villagers! She snorted and coughed up phlegm when she talked. She sort of reminded me of an older and fatter Aretha Franklin.. I would guess that her favorite meal was not a salad.
I whispered under my breath as she hugged her son: "How many Big Macs are you hiding in your bra today, Mrs. West?" But Beth suddenly turned. I was terrified that she might show me her doctor's work by lifting up her bra. Then she said to me spitting up fluid like a garden hose: "What did you say to me? Kanye, did you hear what this son-of-a-b- said?"
I looked at them both: "Oh, no harm meant by it Mrs. West. I said how lovely your new breasts look. Your doctor has done some fine work. He is definitely a Picasso with his hands!"
At this moment Mrs. West smiled. I think I had just saved myself from an old-fashioned butt whooping ghetto style. Then, as though I no longer existed, Mrs. West went back to grooming her son's head.
Much of the parking lot had emptied by this time. It was about 2 o'clock in the afternoon and no sign of the limousine driver Chuck as of yet. Mrs. West was admiring her new breasts a little too much, while grooming her son's curly hair, when all of a sudden I heard a loud screeching noise. It was the sound of tires grinding against hot asphalt. Again, Mrs. West was standing upon the open road just leading into the parking lot. I saw a big Mercedez SUV speeding towards her. But before I had any time to react, Mrs. West was as flat as a pancake! The SUV turned her into what you might find in a blender after a few tomatoes are tossed in.
All I could hear was:
"Momma! Momma! No Momma! My life! My heart"
A thirteen-year-old boy just across the street was laughing while beside him I think it was Jerry Seinfeld and Jason Alexander giving me the thumbs up. Inside the SUV, a person rolled down the automatic window. There was a silent pause, and then an attractive woman wearing sunglasses popped her head out and addressed Kanye:
"Honey, I heard you and your mommy were here so I thought I'd pick you up and drive you home."
It was none other than Kim Kardashian. I thought this was my cue to leave; so I did. I knew they would resolve their differences somehow. Loved ones always find ways to reconcile their disagreements, even in such grave matters as death and homicide. Later that night, when I had switched on the evening news, my optimistic thoughts were not to be as forgiving as expected. It turns out, just after the altercation with Kanye's mother, Kanye threw Kim off of a cliff. Her remains were found not long after being scavenged by a vulture and a homeless guy named Gus. As for Kanye, he blew his brains out with a double barrelled shotgun. And people say being famous is all glitz and glamor.