• » Name: Meka Soul
• » Location: Los Angeles, CA
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Slap-Boxing With Jesus

The Jailbird Syndrome

Let’s be real for a second: hip-hop is probably the only musical genre where even the most flagrant of quasi-homosexuals can even feel like some sort of über-thug, thanks to its representatives’, err, somewhat articulate mannerisms. Pretty much any of these humps would be anally violated on sight if they attempted to actually live out the misogynistic, violent, illegal lifestyles they portray in their raps, but that doesn’t mean that their fans would know it.

I’ll be honest: part of my transition from the run-of-the-mill book smart Nigerian to an aspiring stick-up kid a decade ago was due to a combination of newfound rebellion, raging hormones and an affinity to “Incarcerated Scarfaces.” I think I can speak for the majority of the humps here who have at one point felt as if they were invincible as well.

That indestructible attitude changed quickfast, however, when I was chained to the inside of a police squad car after my infamous 40-minute chase to escape the fuzz throughout Long Beach failed quicker than the Jena 6 rally [1]. Faced with the possibility of being used as currency in a Los Angeles prison, I – for lack of a better term – broke down like a little bitch.

Apparently the shit worked, because I only ended up on house arrest for a few months. Thank God(dess) for prison overcrowding!

The thing I learned the most from my experience is that I wasn’t willing to sacrifice the little things – like the freedom to bathe on a daily basis – for some cheap, tawdry thrill. And this is coming from someone who treats a bowl of Trix like it was ambrosia. So I don’t understand why those same artists who could buy and sell my ass are willing to do a bid, risking everything they’ve worked for.

I already mentioned this week how I could care less about my street credibility if had the financial capabilities to invest in a three-way with Melyssa Ford and that Angel (Lola?) muckluk. So needless to say, I sure as shit wouldn’t risk my livelihood just to prove to the fickle-minded masses that I’m some sort of pseudo-Teflon Don. Had these asscunts taken a page out of Diddy’s expansive catalogue, they’d realize how easy it is to get you top-selling acts ethered at will, then go to some nondescript club and proceed to smack the flames out of anyone who has the gall to get pissed when you hit on their woman. Now that I think of it, Sean Combs has the most street cred out of all those sizzurp-drinking dipshits. Cracking somebody in the head with a bottle of the finest of bum wines, shooting the shit out of a club and blaming your boy and sending your marquee artist to the recording studio in the sky is one thing, but yoking somebody for their publishing, even after they leave your label? That’s some straight-up “leave you die breathing”-style gulliness.

***

On a semi-related note, I’m having a celebration to the jailbirds of the hip-hop world over at 2 Dope Boyz. I invite you all to check it out.

[1] One of the humps ended up back in jail, and two of them look like straight-up homo thugs. It’s safe to say that Black people lost that match.

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