Going Old School (Geezer Edition)

I’m back in a Rap/Hip-Hop mood.  It comes and goes.

Today, as I hip-hopped it up to some sweet West Coast Gangsta Rap, I was once again reminded of this:

I.Am.Getting.Old.

The following series of events is 180% true and is not in any way exaggerated.

I was getting into the new Ice Cube album, Raw Footage, this afternoon.  I was sitting at my desk being gangsta — throwing the West Coast gang sign, mouthing the chorus to “Gangsta Rap Made Me Do It,” and writing a report for a multi-million dollar healthcare organization — when one of our recently hired employees came into my office.  Robyn is 19 years old, and when she stepped into my office to ask if she could borrow the hardcore gangsta book, Good Omens, she noticed my street-wise fortitude and ability to represent a concise report. She was immediatey awe-struck with my gangsta…um…ness that she was too awe-struck to inquire further into the book.

“Yo! Yo! Yo!, what’s up Robyn,” I asked in a hard-edge tone — but not too intense since Robyn is practically a minor, and I didn’t feel like scaring her.  “I’m listening to the new Ice Cube album.  It fu-. It effing rules.”

“Who’s that?”  Robyn seemed confused.

Seriously?  SERIOUSLY?

“You don’t know who Ice Cube is?  You know, Ice Cube from N.W.A?”  I went ahead and pushed pause on my iPod because Cube had just called someone a “mothafucka,” and I didn’t want to be responsible for corrupting the youth.  That’s The Hills’ job.

“Nope.  I’ve never heard of them.  Wait…We learned about ice cubes and the freezing point for H2O in physics class the other day.”

“No, Robyn.  Wrong Ice Cube.”  I gave a good raspy old-man chuckle and made sure my dentures were in place before continuing.  “You see Robyn, back in my day, there was a rap group called N.W.A., which stood for ‘[African Americans] With Attitude.’  They rapped about shooting people and being awesome.”  Robyn giggled.  It was like last Christmas when she got that brand new Cabbage Patch Kid, except this was Christmas for her ears, and the gift was crude knowledge.

“Nope.  I don’t know who Mr. Cube is.  I like Miley Cyrus and still think the world is good.”  Actually, all she said was “nope,” but I’m sure she likes Miley Cyrus and believes the world isn’t a filthy mud ball of hate and idiocy.

“Huh.  Uuuum.”  It seemed my Alzheimer’s was kicking in, and I briefly forgot where I was going with this.  “Oh yeah.  Well, you little whipper-snapper, Ice Cube, Eazy-E, MC Ren and Dr. Dre…”

“Oooo-ooooH!  I know who Dr. Dre is.  He’s famous.  I can’t listen to his music though because mom and dad say he talks about pre-marital sex and marijuana cigarettes.”

“Yes, Robyn.”  As you can tell, continuity played no part in this absolutely TRUE scenario, and I was no longer acting gangsta at all.  In fact, I had aged about 50 years.  “That is what Dr. Dre does.  He makes whoopee with bad girls and smokes marijuana cigarettes.  Here’s a little secret you can tell your buddies at the roller skating rink, though.  Dr. Dre isn’t really a doctor.”

“Neato!  I can’t wait to share this with my pals.  Do you like The Jonas Brothers?”

“No, Robyn.  The Jonas Brothers are fags.”

Pleased that Robyn at least knew who Dr. Dre was, I calmed down a bit.  I went ahead and closed up the bottle of heart medication my physician gives me for my stress.  “Go run along now, Robyn.  Go play hop-scotch with your little friends.” 

Again, continuity plays no part in this absolutely factual account.  So, when Robyn left, I settled back into my rocking chair and flattened out the blanket on my lap.  I was amazed by how the years had past me.  I looked at the liver-spots on my hands and reminisced on VHS and cassette tapes.  “That little kid had just been born when N.W.A. released ‘Straight Outta Compton.’”  An old man tear of joy streamed down my cheek.

Then I died.*

———-

* At which point, Carl The Retard came and gobbled up my corpse.