Dear diary,
Upon the heels of my reunion with Agent Orange Man, now that I’m back in the good graces of the CIA (Central Intelligence Agency), I can finally acquire the financing to promote my rap music. For I’m a big rap star, at heart; only nobody knows of me, because I can’t get any radio play, plus no one comes to my concerts or buys my albums. But now, with all my new support from the clandestine sector, I’m an asset to American Corporations, because I can win over the souls of the populace with my lyrics and beats (for my lyrics are dope and my beats are funky); and then this genuine enthusiasm of the public for my charisma can be tuned to better ends, such as promoting the expansion of multinationals across the known universe. So I make songs that are basically commercials, and they’re super infectious.
Now I wanna play some of my hits for you, gentle reader, here in this book where you and I have been hanging out together; but I run into the problem of trying to represent the magic of music in raw, poorly rendered text: How does one put into mere words the feeling of euphoria that my fan base experiences when they hear me rapping on the microphone? I guess I’m forced to explain things abstractly:
Imagine that you see some percussive, rhythmic noises appearing in the flesh, and they’re shaped like a swamp with pterodactyls flying over it. That’s what my first cool recording sounds like. And then my second smash-hit single sounds like a giant wooden roller smoothing out pizza dough, except, instead of pizza dough, it’s the actual brain of GOD.
So, needless to say, I’m an yuge success in the world of hip-hop entertainment. This earns me a lot of money, so I buy several cars and mansions. I get married and start a business; I bear young and raise them in the church.
The CIA loves me. “You’re the best employee we’ve had since [Name Redacted],” they say.
“Thanks, guys,” I blushingly genuflect.
“You don’t need to curtsy when you appear before us all, out here at the infamous lodge in the middle of the woods,” sez the CIA; “we’re all equals, and it’s important that you maintain self-respect.”
“Will do,” I say.
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Then it’s off to Puerto Rico, and, after that, Guatemala. (I’m not the one who schedules my concerts — I just go wherever the tour bus takes me, and climb onto the stage and say my raps.) Then I go to the U.S. Virgin Islands and give two concerts back-to-back, and both crowds cheer wildly. Two girls faint in the front row; and I make up a couple bars of lyrics extemporaneously which have the effect of notifying the medics to come revive these victims of Extreme Infatuation. Their families call me later that night, while we’re all watching our favorite sitcom reruns, to thank me for what I did earlier in the evening.
“Don’t mention it,” I say. “By the way, are you familiar with my hit rap trax?”
“Of course we are,” the families all answer; “who isn’t!?”
This universal, homogeneous fandom stems from the fact that my albums have been added to the Protestant Hymn Book — tho not as an appendix of also-rans, but interspersed amid the other greats, such as “Old-Time Religion” and “Leaning on the Everlasting Arms”.
After saving the female fans who fainted last night, I go out and get a coffee with my team of lawyers. There, at the diner, I meet a virgin who is impregnated with the son of Jesus, and we really hit it off. The prime trait about her that I find so valuable is that she loves me at first sight without knowing that I’m the world’s biggest rap star — I’m simply an immensely attractive, ordinary gentleman, to her.
“Are you quite sure that Jesus is the father of your unborn child?” I ask, seriously curious. “Here’s what I’m getting at: Don’t you mean that Jehovah is the father, and that you have been instructed by his angelic representative to simply name the child ‘Jesus’?”
“No, Jesus is the father,” she sez earnestly; “of this, I am certain.”
I exchange a look with my team of lawyers, and none of them seem to have anything to whisper to me; so, since nobody’s smirking or suppressing a laugh, I say:
“Alright, whatever.” Then I reach into my suit coat and pull out a fat stack of cash. I hold the banknotes before my face and smell them, and I fan thru them a few times; then I place the stack back into my pocket and say: “If your child is really the son of the Almighty Warrior, and you are truly a virgin damsel who works as an unpaid stable-maid at the Inn Without Vacancies (what a weird choice of name for a motel, by the way), then please prove all these theological frills by causing your deity to settle our tab.”
The unwed mother-to-be tilts her head and blinks three times: “You want my unborn child who was immaculately conceived to pay for our coffees?”
“That is my proposal, yes,” I fold my arms. Then my rap track that is a nationwide hit begins to play over the tin-can speakers that are installed overhead in the diner. “That’s me,” I point to the ceiling nonchalantly; “I’m the one who made this.”
A member of the diner’s waiting staff now approaches and delivers an announcement: “The establishment’s owner has sent me to inform you that your order is on the house.”
“No! wait,” the pregnant virgin begins to rummage thru her coin purse. She pulls out a dime and places it on the countertop; then she finds another dime and places it next to the first. Sliding the coins over toward the waiter, she sez: “Tell your manager that we appreciate his generosity, but I would prefer to pay our bill nevertheless. You see, my friend here and I are trying to settle a little skirmish.” She nods in my direction.
The waiter looks down at the coins and then up at each of us. He then sez: “How long have ye been married?”
“Oh, we’re not married yet,” sez my new acquaintance, “we’re just having a spat.”
“Ah!” the waiter nods knowingly. Then he gestures to my entourage and sez, “Can I get all these gentlemen anything?”
“No, they’re fine,” I say; “this is just my legal team. I’ll feed them banknotes when we return to the ranch.”
The waiter nods again. “Well then I’ll be right back with your change.”
So, being finally convinced that this woman is telling the truth, I agree to wed her, just to clear her besmirched honor; and we end up getting along very well. I hire a crew of movers to haul her suitcase of belongings out of her trailer-home and into one of my mansions. She then appears in a lot of my music videos. We make a cute couple.
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