Friday, July 30, 2004
officer bird, who I just found out, after all these years, is actually officer byrd. Thanks paxgitmo, radiohumper, pseudonyms wrapped in an enigma, for both the info, and the fond dedication to he that rides bicycles yet might fly, the bird you can’t smoke, the almighty O.B. that ain’t a tampon, chuuch, aka Jackson black, son of five, father of a thousand. Cummin’ strait outta muthafuckin’ riverside, and that ain’t no muthafuckin’ joke, despite cube starin’ at me all funny in the corner.
Whut else was I gonna say. I already said, um, that. Hmmm. Oh yeah, I finally met my niece day before yesterday, and she is all that the press clippings have portrayed, plus a bag of biscuits. Guy smiley ain’t got half the facial expressions as this future whatever she decides to do. I gotcher back baby girl. Play on playa. Chuuuch.
Let’s see. Big ups to jack daniels for keeping me sated. Big ups to my better half for keeping my mind on my life and my life where the strife ain’t keeping a flip flapped cracker jack on front street, and big ups to my fam from the g-town for comin’ out and representing like the biggest most notorious whatchacallit since the h-town posse first scarred a face, big ups to my sis out in nyc for droppin me a line and reppin like the 83rd section. It’s real in the field, and don’t even think for a sec it ain’t. werd to OFFICER BIRD. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to think of him as a byrd. It brings images of a paralyzed football player whut they make made for tv movies about, and I know the original anti-nerd ain’t ever going out like that.
Whut else? G-unit, fuck y’all, I saw that pair a jeans up in demo, you copied my fade, don’t think I’m not up on the beeswax, but it’s cool, the reaper comes to reap and I come to sew, an even better pair of pants that will kick your tail up with the crips, bluds, all those fools, laughin they ass off at some true suckas, crime rate going up, down, whatevs. Sparks fly. Reggae music, elevatorized, ensues. Peeps know. Aloha.