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Slap-Boxing With Jesus

Misogyny Rap Is The Past, Present & Future

Real talk is that I wasn’t even planning on going in on this joint at all this week. Considering that I had a self-imposed mini-vacation where I crammed a good hundred-plus miles of driving, some fine dining at the local waffle house, upgrading the gear workshop with some new sneaks, faux-skydiving and a random-ass conversation with a random-ass phony Jack Sparrow in Hollywood into four days, not only is Slap-Box M tired but – interestingly enough – not full of the rage, cynicism and fried chicken that usually powers these shits to begin with. So I was gonna take a break and relax for a bit; I mean, I’ve gone in on this thing some 250 times, give or take a few, so it’s not like any of youse readers would really notice if I ghosted for a few days anyways since this ain’t shit more than a blog version of “What Dat Thing Smell Like.”

But of course I can’t leave this alone when even the smallest of instigators grinds my gears. This particular prime mover happened to be while I was running the city with my friend the other day, and a few local club staples got some burn in the whip: a song by Suga Free (I forget the song title) and another by Too $hort (I also forget the title). Now for those that read this site who don’t dwell in the West, the aforementioned are known for songs which, well, diss the ever-loving shit out of women, which for the most part is ridiculously banal and awesomely entertaining at the same time.

The raw shit is, some women don’t seem to mind that the song tells them to take it up the pooh shooter (ha!), so long as the lyrics are backed by a pulsating, bass-heavy beat which effectively drowns out said lyrics. I don’t frequent clubs as much anymore, but during the times I used to try to dry-hump a fly shorty I remembered when the broads would lose their minds over “Shake Dat Monkey.”

By the way, that above video could possibly not be safe for work, but I’m sure that disclaimer won’t stop some of youse.

So of course the question remains: why is it that even some of the staunchest of anti-nappy headed hoe name-calling women will get buck at the drop of songs that, well, call them nappy-headed hoes? My non-educated guess is that it has something to do with either the scenario of where the music is being played – the club/social drinking scene setting – making it more acceptable, or the fact that women are inherently freakazoids by nature, and that those tunes are akin to the Pied Piper’s (extra naux Robert Sylvester on a vocoder) whistles that inexplicably convinced the town’s children to follow a man in tights (extra extra naux random episode of WWE Raw). Then again, seeing as how I am a member of the XY chromosome contingent, who am I to try to decode the shit when the shit caters to my innermost carnal desires? Shit, if they made a BET UnCut version of Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood for women to drop all self-respect for themselves in a club, I’m not gonna be the one voting no.

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