Gangsta 4 Life, Or At Least Until Something Cooler Comes Along

It was 8:30 this morning and if I hadn't already been up, the mellifluous sound of gangsta rap drifting up to my bedroom window would certainly have done the trick.

I say "drifting" because we all know that's what mellifluous sounds do. We also all know gangsta rap isn't mellifluous. So it wasn't drifting. It was more like pounding on my window. It was actually an awful lot like some motherfucker kicking down my door and shouting, "it's 8:30 in the morning, I'm up, and I don't give a fuck about the rest-a-ya'll."

Ordinarily I wake to the sound of birdies chirping, so I was curious as to who was kickin' it P-Diddy style at such an ungodly hour. I looked out the window.

I should have known.

Look, I know being gangsta is all the rage these days, but if you're a 15-year-old white boy from Delaware, it's unlikely you are gangsta no matter how many Spike Lee Joints you've heard people mention on MySpace. And if your family is dropping 5000 Washingtons a week to rent a vacation "cottage" in Corolla, there's a distinct possibility you are not gangsta. Most importantly, if you've gotten up at eight-fucking-thirty in the morning to float around your own personal in-ground pool on a Sponge Bob raft, you are almost certainly not gangsta. Gangstas might dig Sponge Bob, but they sleep late -- they've been up all night doin' crazy-ass gangsta shit and pouring a little out for their homies.

Next time, try a little Jimmy Buffet. I won't like it any better, but at least it will make sense.