rapindustryfanfiction:

Gucci Mane is excited for his date. He has gotten his hair cut specifically for the occasion. The water runs over his body, making him feel warm and clean. He looks at his arms as he soaps them up. They look awesome. He’s totally going to get to first base tonight.

He’s almost finished washing up when he remembers on crucial part of the shower: washing his hair. He grabs his bottle of Herbal Essence and squirts his usual-sized gob of it into his hand and then rubs it together, hoping that his hair washing experience is just like it is in those Herbal Essence commercials. As he’s bringing his soapy hands upon his head, he remembers the haircut. He’s got way too much shampoo on his head. There’s nothing he do. His hair is fucked.

Gucci Mane sighs. He’s ruined yet another date before it even began.

rapindustryfanfiction:

By sheer coincidence, Odd Future Wolf Gang, in town for a concert, came walking out of the Chipotle on South Beach just as Rick Ross was going in. Tyler the Creator didn’t make eye contact with him, and everyone else was too busy looking at Tyler to notice Rick Ross; still, Rick Ross thought he had detected a hint of a smile spreading across Tyler’s smooth, boyish lips.

A terrifying smile, though. The smile of someone secretly plotting to do you in.

Rick Ross had been thinking a lot about death lately. He was thinking of death even then, as he was entering the Chipotle.

Rick Ross went up to the counter and asked to see the list of nutrition facts. He was very stoned and a little bit nervous, but the cashier knew exactly what he was talking about, and quickly got it for him.

For the most part, the information on the chart was unsurprising. Rick Ross knew, of course, that cheese and sour cream were indulgences; guacamole had a lot of fat, but he had heard that it was good fat, which made sense since, much like pizza, it was basically a vegetable. He was a little worried about the carbs in the tortilla, but—

At that moment, Rick Ross got to the entry for the flour tortilla.

9 grams of fat.

670 milligrams of sodium.

What in the ever-living fuck. Rick Ross felt like a child who has just watched a bomb destroy her Christmas presents.

The list of nutrition facts fell from Rick Ross’s hands as the latter dropped limply to his side. His head swam with visions of ‘taco bowls’ and ‘lettuce wraps’ and other stupid bullshit that they could probably make for you if you didn’t want the tortilla. Obviously, Rick Ross would not be ordering any of that nonsense. What in the hell was the point of a burrito with no tortilla? That’s just some shit on a plate! Rick Ross had better shit to eat at home, and better plates to eat it off of.

He was Rick Ross, dammit! He didn’t have to eat healthy. He could pay people to eat healthy for him! He was damned if he was gonna let some numbers on a scrap of laminated paper scare the tortillas off his burritos!

Just then, at a table some fifteen feet away from Rick Ross, an elderly couple began the long and arduous process of standing up. Their faces, visibly straining with the effort of lifting their creaky bodies, looked like two dishes that somebody had put cherry pies into and then forgotten about for many years. A thin plastic tube rose from an oxygen tank sitting in the booth beside the old man and disappeared somewhere into the flaky crust of his nostrils. It wasn’t pretty.

And yet, Rick Ross couldn’t look away. And as he continued staring, he noticed something: these twisted old monsters were actually smiling—shaky, but genuine smiles; the kind of smile that a dumb kid gets just before raising his hand to say something especially dumb; so that you have to wonder whether he knows that what he is about to say is really dumb and gleefully anticipates playing the fool, or is merely basking in the glow of imagined intellectual triumph.

They were smiling. Were they happy? Healthy? Did they regret anything? You wonder. You have to.

It was all too much to take in. Rick Ross was glad he hadn’t removed his sunglasses when he entered the restaurant, because right about now he felt like crying.

Rick Ross left Chipotle and called to have his Bugatti brought to him. He had walked there, for the exercise.

When Rick Ross got home, he ate an entire quart of Ricky Road, the special limited-edition ice cream that he had paid Ben & Jerry’s to make for him. It tasted like Cristal and marshmallows. It tasted like death. He savored it.

heartwarming

dasracistilluminati:

Nehru Jackets, the solo debut of Himanshu was released a few hours ago via SEVA NY website.

The album is entirely produced by Mike Finito. In addition to the appearances of established indie rappers such as Action Bronson or Danny Brown and Greedhead affiliates, this project also includes collaborations with SEVA youth members that sing and rap in Punjabi. The art cover, created by Aakash Nihalani, is a reference to well-known Parle G biscuits. Nehru Jackets is a 74-minute tribute to Queens, to these streets from Jackson Heights or Flushing that epitomize globalization, to the children of migration.

Download Nehru Jackets

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