• » Name: Meka Soul
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Slap-Boxing With Jesus

It’s Hard Out There For A Simp

I used to think that the reason rap has an issue with the homosexual community is because of its unwillingness to expose of its own vulnerabilities for fear of making them come off as the very thing they detest. Think about it: every time a rapper decides to, say, jump on the vocoder and hoot and holler through mush mouth vocals about 808s and heartbreaks or some random-ass shit, everyone from rival artists to Twinkie soft c-sectionals will jump on said rapper’s figurative ass with a plethora of incessant, wild homophobic jibba jabba.

Is it really all that bad, however, exposing your softness at times? I mean, nobody’s a hard-shelled, stone-cold G.I. Bro at all times of the day, no matter how hard they front like they are. Emotions are what makes us all human beings in the first place, and I ironically tend to question those that try to mask it under a shroud of faux- toughness because the shit reminds me of Ving Rhames’ character in that Chuck & Larry movie.

*shudders at the thought of Ving Rhames’ character in that Chuck & Larry movie

I think I may have been a little off with that hypothesis however. No, the real reason why cats don’t want to expose themselves is because they don’t want their private lives being so public, whether its been thrown out all over the Internets via a YouTube (or to a shittier extent, World Star Hip-Hop) video, MySpace blog posting or – my personal favorite – the “tell-all” exposé. And since nobody’s making much money in rap (unless you happen to be of Yiddish heritage, but that megillah is for another time) everybody from the two-bit slore to the disgruntled former employee is dropping knowledge on the tawdry pasts of rappers in video or book format.

What agitates me is how these money-hungry vultures attempt to disguise the shit as “cautionary tales,” like one of those “The More You Know” skits NBC used to play during commercial breaks of Saved By The Bell, as if it’s supposed to “enlighten” the audience and hip them onto how the game really works when most of really know otherwise. A personal highlight (lowlight?) of mine was when muh’fucking Superhead of all people came to my alma mater (go Cal State Dominguez Hills Toros!) as a part of Women’s History Month a few years ago when her first book came out. I guess Roxy Reynolds was too busy giving a CPR lesson to some lucky guys’ schlongs to discuss the dangers of premarital sex that day, but whatever. Fortunately I was too busy making coffee for a bunch of crotchety cracka-ass crackas that day to attend the momentous occasion, but my friend did tell me Supes praised the inventor of water or some dumb shit during her speech.

*Eli Porter stare*

It’s no wonder everybody in rap is damn near on some Deebo status. If I was a rapper (and thank God[dess] I’m not) I’d probably have to pay off every woman I was with in Reebok 5411s just to keep her from trying to make money off my private life. Last thing I need is some made up shit about how I sound like Reh Dogg while we were in between the sheets being all out there.

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