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Slap-Boxing With Jesus

Jay-Z: The Black Tall Israeli

If anybody wants to aspire to be in a major position in rap that’s not in a sexual, double-kangaroo scissor kick kind of way, I feel it should definitely be that of a Tall Israeli.

When “Rapper’s Delight” first hit the airwaves way back in 1979, it was not only significant because it was the first hip-hop single to go gold but also gave birth to the first hip-hop T.I. (and a female, no less), Sylvia Robinson. I wonder if VH1 would ever dedicate one of those fake-ass Hip-Hop Honors segments to her.

Anyways, one of the rules of being a T.I. was that – and I’m generalizing here – you had to be of Persian descent to qualify for access into the secret junta. Sure, there were many rappers that “owned” vanity labels, but that was nothing more than the petty gifts the labels’ Xerxes would bestow upon their unwitting puppets. I thought that when Roc-A-Fella Records jumped into the fray it’d be no less important than Runyan Ave. or whatever label owns Strong Arm Steady, but I see now that it was all a façade for Jay-Z to rise up through the ranks to become a Tall Israeli his damn self.

I guess it was between wearing shiny green suits in that “Sunshine” video and flipping that Annie snippet where he learned from quite possibly the greatest T.I. of all time Liar Conman on how to lie, cheat and steal his way to victory, crushing Beyoncé’s inner thigh muscles and Amil’s dreams (and quite possibly her inner thigh muscles as well) along the way.

I’ve seen traces of the Tall Israeli gene in the likes of Curtis and Puffy also. The only difference is that Curtis is weighed down by keeping a stable of child-slapping piff pocketers, while Puff will still smack fire out of someone himself rather than having his goon squad do it. Sure Jay has Bleek around, but I really think he’s just his personal Benson than anything else.

The other day the newest owner of an Xbox 360 posted a piece explaining that damn near everything is eschewed when it boils down to the almighty dollar, and Jay is a prime example of such fuckery. Screwing over former block associates like DeHaven and, um, Calvin Klein (which has got to be up there in the list of the most quasi-homosexual monikers of all time, just behind Dick Butkus) was one thing, but swacking the very label he formed with Dame Dash and that no-name third partner out from under them was the icing on the cake. Now Dame basically has to live on whatever revenue he can muster from third-world countries from all those ugly-ass Pro Keds sales, and I can’t even think of the other guy’s name much less know what he’s up to now. Probably shooting up to take away the pain. Meanwhile, Shawn is off signing deals with Live Nation for some wildly high amount of money I’ll likely never see in my lifetime unless I try to take over both this site and those other two Internets shit stains on rap that I stopped visiting a long time ago. And I’m just too lethargic to even bother trying to find out my esteemed Gotdamned Editor’s shoe size, much less his direct deposit routing number, to even do so in the first place.

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