Yes, that’s right…my car’s roof is made out of metal. Of some sort. Whatever cars are made out of. So I guess my roof is made out of car. AND THAT SUCKS.
See, last year I had this sweet deal on a convertible and, while the typical Florida weather hovers around hot as balls with spot torrential rainstorms, I still pretty much de-roofed it every day. And yeah, I’d blast the gangster stuff, because that’s just who I am. Young Jeezy can get a sweet ass deal on coke, or so he says, and I can identify with that. I used to cop bricks by the kilo as well…you know, back when I was trying to find ways to improve my knowledge of the metric system. Mad grams up in this hizzy, yo. But it wouldn’t even matter what it was…I was a superstar in that whip. I could drive by just blasting Pat Benatar’s “Love is a Battlefield” and people would look over all like, “oh snap look at that gangsta mothafuckkkaaaaaa!!!” and I’d just be rocking out like “HEARTACHE TO HEARTACHE WE STAND, BITCHES!!!!!!!!!”…oh, those were the days.
But now, now that I have a regular whip, things just aren’t as cool anymore. This car actually probably has better speaks than the old whip, as the dude that used to own it must have shared a similar affinity for pumping the ol’ bass. But…I have child-safety windows in the back. I realized that today when I was playing my current jam (Rich Boy - Drop – get used to it, you will probably be sick of it by fall), that, you know, this just isn’t gangster. MY WINDOWS DON’T EVEN GO ALL THE WAY DOWN! That is NOT gangster. That is the opposite of gangster…that is accounting. I’m rollin’down 441 with my speaks going nuts, “drop….drop….” and motherfurnaces are all staring like, “look at this accountant…that accountant ain’t gangster”. And I have to look out the window and yell that “I AM NOT A FUCKING ACCOUNTANT!”. Gay.