Whomp! There is is!!
You have been working at the magazine for three weeks now, and you seem so happy. You refer to me as "A-Boogie", you whisper sweet nothings like "Yo, your rack is tighter than the Lohan" and "you got junk girl...phat junk." You tell me of your trials and tribulations how "the world is against me", "my pops is always down my neck" and that "I can never get respect, B". And I understand your pain.
I understand how hard is was growing up in Pacific Palisades. I know that your father disgraced you by purchasing a blue 2004 BMW instead of the 2004 Cadillac Escalade that you told your friends you were getting. I know that dodging bullets and carjackings everyday at Pepperdine has made your higher education process a bit trying. I completley understand how angry you are that your mother won't give you an extra 3 grand a month to your already pitiful allowance of 6500. I totally understand why you hate your sister who "like goes to the temple and shit, and they love her for that yo...they like tell me she is the shit. What the fuck am I, fool?"
How have you managed to survive? How have you maintained such a level head and driven heart, all while dealing with repression, opression and prejudice? I know the constant singing all day of the 1993 Tag Team song "Whoomp! There it is!" makes you happy and takes the pain away. I know the sports anthem, and song played at every Hooters melts your sorrow...but maybe, just maybe can you stop singing it for five minutes. Just long enough for you to tell me about your new Shady Sweatshirt and Nike Air Force Ones.
I promise I'll listen. I promise I will get you over the mountain to the promised land, and one day...just one day you will be a blooming rose in a concrete jungle.