Mrs.5000 works out of our home, which means that the house becomes a business office after I leave in the morning and doesn't turn back into a house until I get home. I don't usually think much about this or even notice it, because, well, I'm at work.
But the other day I was home in the early afternoon, getting ready for a job interview. And really, the place seemed much like it always does.
But cleaning up the kitchen after a quick lunch, I started psyching myself up for the interview by... um... rapping. And just to show what an up-to-date hepcat I am, I was rapping from the very fine 1994 Beastie Boys album, "Ill Communication."
I'm sure I have the lyrics completely garbled, but the important thing is that they were VERY LOUD. Arguably I was not so much rapping as, say, bellowing:
ONE TWO OH MY GOD I GOT THE SHIT
I GOT THE KUNG FU GRIP BEHIND THE GREEN TRAP KIT
YEAH I'M A FUNKY SKULL AND I'M A SCORPIO
AND WHEN I'M IN MY FLOW I'M DR. ON-THE-GO, SO
MICHAEL5000 WHAT YOU ON THE MIKE FO'?
at which point, I switch to a deeper voice, for that authentic touch:
BECAUSE I GOTS TO TALK ABOUT THE TIMES WHEN I RHYME
AND WHEN THE MC'S FLY IN MY FACE I'M LIKE....
"Umm... Michael?"
"Yeah?"
"Can I call a client now?"
oh, man. I used to make up fake Beastie Boys raps when I worked in the kitchen of this horrible sports-themed restaurant. Everyone there was Catholic. They went to the church of the owner. He as much as told me that he made it a practice to hire socially maladaptive types and emotional cripples so that they would need him and he would not have any problems or inter-restaurant dating. I should have fled, but my friend was one of the first people ever hired at the place and I thought she was pretty normal, so what the hell. Incidentally the boss's name was Dieckoff. Could you make up a name more apropos than that? But anyway, there I was the only non-Catholic in the kitchen and the "college girl" whom the guys had been warned to watch out for because of my loose morals and fast ways. (I think those might have been the terms--lose and fast, but it's been years. You get the drift.) Anyway, so I was rapping Fake Beasties, or Feasties. I was cleaning out the fryer, which is by far the greasiest and most frustrating job, and I was going on in that last-syllable intoned way: "Well now the Pope went to heaven on a golden ROPE. You know I slipped in da showah trynah find my SOAP. The Pope went to heaven he fell on his KNEES. You know my CAT has leu-ke-mi-a my DAWG has FLEAS!" I happened to turn around at this point and one of the kitchen guys was cracking up, but my friend was standing there with her arms crossed, shooting me a terrible glare. I realized that just about every Feastie rap I'd done since working there was in some way not very friendly to a devout Catholic. All that time I thought she just didn't like me acting like an idiot. I had offended her religiously, I think. Oh well. The kitchen guy thought it was pretty funny. I can't say I've had the urge to Feastie since then. Just as well. --ASW
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