Back in 1923, foreign rappers from Paris drove a slave ship called “The Green Lady” over to my neighborhood. They crossed the ocean and landed on Minnesota: right on Eagan, USA. “Bullseye,” they sneered. This caused widespread panic, but then they offered us gifts of malaria, which lured us Eaganites to let down our guard. They tried to defeat us, these foreign rappers, on the microphone; but they failed, because their vocals and lyrics were not as good as ours. Then they tried to play our game of Big Record Sales: thus the market was attacked with a mass of foreign rap. They used stolen beats and fuzzy mathematics; so the Empire of Eagan struck back with stylish garb and better photo-shoots; but these foreign rappers tried to get the upper hand by developing super catchy, awesome, well-developed jingles for the radio. They didn’t understand that rap in the United States is more slow and mundane: if you’re too wise, you end up looking like a fool. Nonetheless, we native rappers took a hard loss, eventually: We got defeated by these alien emcees, and they all became stars, because they tried hard and earned a multitude of fans. So we said “Screw the fans — what do they know!” And then we paid our critics to say that we were the better rappers; and we also were able to push up our digits on the sales charts, because we know some of the people who work there (we all attended the same grade-school). So, in conclusion, I will never give up my rapping trophy — not even if you were to steal my entire entourage of stage dancers. No, you would have to kill my entire entourage of stage dancers, before I’d give up my rapping trophy.
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