• » Name: Meka Soul
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Slap-Boxing With Jesus

A Weed Carrier’s Eulogy

You may not know it, but this Saturday would have marked Tupac Shakur’s 36th birthday. And while most people like to proclaim that the hip-hop society would be different if he or Biggie didn’t get shot the fuck up, I’m pretty sure the two would be lambasted and categorized as “old man rap” they same way we bitch about Jay-Z not wanting to give up the mike. On the other hand, had Suge Knight not held him up to the passenger window and used him as a human bulletproof vest, would he still be held in such a high regard as he is today? Hell, I bet if perennially grumpy old coot KRS-One caught that metal lungie in his neck instead of Scott La Rock, music critics, hipsters and message board hounds alike would be calling him the greatest rapper of all time. What’s fucked up is that while all of the good ones (with the exceptions of Soulja Slim and, of course, Stack Bundles, among others) are getting picked off, the shitty rappers are still running around violating the ears of the hip-hop world. Who would have thought that Lil’ Wayne would have more longevity in the game than Big L? That shit is astonishing.

The funny thing about death in hip-hop is that once some random-ass rapper catches an ethering, other random-ass schmucks start giving a fuck about the person as if he was Jim Morrison or some shit. Sure it may suck when some douche like Camouflage gets his brains turned into Gouda, but I’m not about to run out and spend my sneaker money on any of his craptacular albums like he paid my bills or something. If I didn’t give one-eighth of a shit about him when he was alive, it wouldn’t matter that I don’t give a shit about him now that his body is floating somewhere in the Gulf Coast, right?

And with so many people singing the praises of Biggie and Eazy-E, why doesn’t anybody care about the likes of Cowboy, Marlon Brando, Mausberg and the rest of those dead dickheads? We’ll never have a street named after Freaky Tah in Queens or some park bench devoted to Bloodshed in Harlem. At the very least I’d like to see a crack spot dedicated to Slang Ton. Latasha Harlins did more for hip-hop than the three of them combined, and that broad didn’t even rap. Why doesn’t she have a recognized holiday?

I could more or less give a shit about a rapper getting his kufi shot off. Call me remorseless (among other things), but I can’t feel bad when some no-name ganja grunt gets annihilated in a pissy project hallway for their chain. My question isn’t who did the crime; it’s what the hell was that person doing still living on Section 8 with a fur coat and a chunky neckpiece like they’re the motherfucking man anyways? That’s ridiculously ass-backwards as is. Fuck “keeping it real;” the day anybody moves into a higher tax bracket they should “keep it alive.”

While I’ll agree that murder shouldn’t be the cultural norm as my fashion sister from another mister A.H.L.O.T. said, if their raps weren’t filled with such homicidal banter, most jigs probably wouldn’t have gotten killed in the first place. You don’t see anybody sticking up weenie-ass Pharrell for any of his big-ass chains or getting Common for his crocheted pants and fedoras, do you? On the other hand, celebrating the trials and tribulations of any artist is just as retarded. It’s a little surprising to see so many people support singing degenerate R. Kelly after he unloaded on that jailbait’s face more so than the fact that he squirted on her in the first place. In that sense, I suppose we should all laud that jig from Crime Mob who’s locked up for going all Peter North and touched his little brother on the inside, right?

Alongside materialism and misogyny, murder is unfortunately a part of the hip-hop society. While I know that the shit’s not gonna stop any time soon, I’m not gonna pour some of my box of wine on the ground every time someone gets murked. As tragic as their deaths may be, those shits aren’t fucking up my day. Hell, we’re probably not going to remember or give a shit about Stack Bundles in six months anyways. I know I’m not.

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