White girl side hustle opportunity I missed #6 (“industry dinner with Curren$y” edition)

I HAVE BLONDE HAIR AND OFTEN WEAR A WHITE TANK TOO, YOU KNOW, SO HOW COME I CAIN’T SIT THERE?

I would add “Whothefuck is that bitch,” à la Joi in Friday, but I don’t talk like that in real life so I don’t want Curren$y to see this post and think I’m foul-mouthed. It’s unladylike.

Aw, censorship. I had to do it, this being a sweet and innocent blog.


(you gotta buy the Blu-Ray edition if you want the director’s cut)
I know there’s more to him as a man but you can’t fault me for thinking that all Curren$y cares about is his X-box, V-12 engines, the greatest strains this season, and a whole lot of commas on his checks. He also says things like Dead stock tissue in the box, elephant print/On my Flint 13’s no retro 3M reflective, which is either about cars or shoes – either way, I’m fucked. Not a lot for me to work with there, conversation-wise.
But I bet you I can elicit a smile across the dinner table by engaging him in a debate about Sean Payton’s visor (stylish or no?) and which is the superior walking-in-slow-motion-out-to-your-Caprice-in-the-driveway song (“Easin’ In” or “Only One Can Win”?). Then I can just babble on, ask him what he thinks about the pumpkin-colored 328 on that Frank O cover, and try to repeat some of my favorite lyrics of his – Something you n—as ain’t never been: boss/Can’t find your mom and your dad/In the grocery store, panicking: lost – til the champagne hits me and I lose my focus. I start to get all critical like I’m composing a blog post (“I didn’t much care for your lyrical content being so firearm-heavy a few years ago, you sounded silly”; “How come I was not notified of the audition for the ‘White Girl Jumping into Pool’ character in the ‘Address’ video?”). It turns into a huge foot-in-mouth extravaganza. So I just resort to giggling, playing with my hair, saying “I FEEL THE JETNESS, LALALAAA” and just when I’m about to ask him to start reading the phone book to me, the DJ plays my funtimes girly song that I have no choice but to love due to the estrogen flowing through me, or maybe it’s that funtimes girly song, so I scream THISMYSONNNG, then excuse myself from the table to go work it out on the floor. It’s a good plan, yes? I’m ready. I am. I’ve lotioned myself up, I got my white tank on and I’m ready for my meal at the table, the human obstruction known as “Dame Dash” be damned. I want to be that lady at that table. Time to get it crackin like lobsters.
“Run Dat Shit.” The part about having advance access to fashion designers’ sketch pads for next season is lame; it could be straight from Rawss’ playbook and that’s the most devastating criticism I can give a lyric. But the description of him on the red carpet in shorts makes up for it. (He was just at the premier ’cause his homeboy was in the movie!). Also: My style straight like 9:15 and Marlo on the screen, yeah bitch we on The Wire/You talking too much, bitch – go sit up there with the driver. (things I like)

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