"I like listening to RICK ROSS on the way to my minimum wage job. It provides me with the motivation necessary to chase that paper; to swallow my pride for another day and suffer the thinly veiled condescension of the leisure class sucklin pon da fat o' the land."
That's what some phag said to me the other day. I nodded my head in assent, but really I was thinkin, "Dawg, you take shit way too seriously!" I be listening to RICK ROSS in the same way I like watching a fucking STEVEN SEGAL movie or some shit. It's the kind of overwrought fantasy that momentarily allows us to escape the hideous boredom of the quotidian grind. And fo sho we laughin at ROZAY just as much as we clownin on SEGAL fo his bufoonery!
But yo, errytime a new RICKY album comes out I be thinkin, "Damn he done come out with another classic! ROSS got that MICHAEL BAY swag! Lush cinematics! Rap game SIDNEY LUMET!" But the euphoria of a new installment in neon candy-dipped ROZAY land - a land of opulent freeway overpasses, strip clubs sticky with spilled champagne, and many many XXXL Hanes white tees - is as temporary and fleeting as the high from ROZAY'S favorite subject matter (cocaine [btw]). Hits hard and quick. And is there anything wrong with that? I dunno. I be snorting mad lines of yayo, so I says yes.
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