Today is the 12th anniversary of the Clipse debut, “Lord Willin”. With that, we celebrate the central single of the classic watchin the Thornton brothers poundin the VA pavement long before today’s rappers were runnin through the 6 with their woes. HOT DAMN – did they make that drug life sound fly…but responsibly cautious.
I didn’t choose the blog life, the blog life chose me! This can be stressful – especially when your co-writer’s an English major grammar-Nazi:
But, as the saying goes “sticks and stones may break ya bones, but bumblebees will sting the $hit out of your double grammar-queen face”…How’s that, BEN? Does THAT pass your final edit!!! So, when you find your place of peaceful contemplation, and a perpetratin-ass-bumblebee is ALL up in ya… BeezNess, what do you do?
2. Okay, maybe the tool ain’t enough. It’s one thing to TRAP a bumblebee but, if you wanna walk away with your eyeballs in tact and stinger-free, you better pick a SMARTER tool… So retreat, and dodge like Mayweather:
3. Here we go. This one’s CLEAR. Why? So you can see the buzzing beast bounce around before he pounces at your head like a face-hugger from the Alien movies!
4. Trap him with a paper on top. It was windy out, so I used thin cardboard. This African is takin NO chances. He might hate you at this point, the Lil Bee might even wanna go kamikaze on your family, but when he sees you were setting him free. He’ll thank you:
That, or he’ll go get trapped in another screened porch like an idiot, meet his fate in the beak of a lucky bird becoming (wait for it) Buzzfeed, or use his legs in a flower orgy in the sweet sweet looove makin act of pollination. Bee easy, Pimpin!
Whenever I’m rocking the old chef’s knife on a fresh white onion, I like to pretend I’m an incredulous doctor preforming exploratory surgery on an alien species for the first time, recording my thoughts into an imaginary tape recorder (Yes, tapes. I’m a very old doctor and stuck in my ways. Goddamned technology is ruining society! I remember when we didn’t even use anesthetic, they just sliced you open like a MAN!), reveling in the absurd discovery of the onion’s insides. It’s cathartic to release like that, to give away to the world of pretend, embracing your inner child, or, more honestly, crazy person.
“Subject presented with a unique case of flaking dandruff. After initial scrub and cleanse, the outer flake shell broke off on its own. I can only conclude the husk provides some sort of protection. Deeper analysis into the creature’s makeup is necessary. I’m making the first cut now, a vertical incision along the creature’s center axis. The skin gives way easily, peeling back, revealing… MORE ONION? Holy shit! I’ve never seen a creature like this before. Dual layers of skin. Quite an evolutionary quirk! I need to explore deeper. But first, the top most layer of skin must be completely removed. Forceps, please.”
Which makes me realize I would be a HORRIBLE doctor. You’re really not supposed to remove the entirety of your subject’s skin just because you’ve noticed something interesting inside of them. Imagine if you did that to a human. “Oh, looks like you’ve got a unique bone spur on your heel there. We’re going to have to remove all of your flesh to get a better look.” That’s basically what I do to the onion. That’s not real Hippocratic oath-y of me, so I inevitably switch roles, transforming into an interrogator, a real rule-ignoring bastard of a man, for a secret shadow government agency.
“TELL ME WHAT YOU KNOW. Don’t make me remove your second layer of skin, White Onion. We know you have the codes! WE KNOW YOU HAVE THEM. Oh playing tough and silent, huh? WELL I’VE GOT THE KEY TO UNLOCK YOUR ASSHOLE, BUTTHEAD. And by asshole, I mean mouth, because you’ve got a butt for a head. THERE’S PLENTY MORE WORDPLAY WHERE THAT CAME FROM. Nothing? Then it’s time to rip off your skin and… OH MY GOD MORE ONION. WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU?”
But by that point the onion has gotten to me, and my eyes start welling up. You don’t ever see any black-hearted bastard torturers with tears in their eyes, do you? No, of course not. There ain’t no empathy in the torture game. So I have to switch again, this time taking on the role of a heartbroken woman, having arrived home to find her husband tortured to death after a botched surgery.
“White Onion, honey, are you home? I picked up brisket at the market.I know it’s your fav – OH MY GOD! WHITE ONION? Oh no… oh no, no, no, no! THIS CAN’T BE HAPPENING! WAKE UP YOU SON OF A BITCH! WAKE UP!”
And that’s about the point in time when I realize I’ve gone too far… again. I need to stop playing with my food.