Alternate Career Rejection Notice

I've had to come to terms with the reality that I won't be a gangsta rapper. I possess neither the street cred nor the inherent anger. Statistically, odds are I'll never pop a cap in anyone's ass. My social circle doesn't include bitches or hos, or at the very least, they successfully masquerade those reputations. My 1993 Geo Prism is too economic and fuel-efficient to be considered a hoopde, and besides, the factory cassette player is on the fritz.

Fundamentally, I lack bling. My dental insurance plan doesn't include a provision for gold teeth. Dave Ramsey's budget planning prohibits me purchasing ice for ice's sake. My ears have only the anatomical holes for hearing, and no accompanying piercings. As if this wasn't bad enough, my head is too large to fashionably exhibit the dew-rag look. My pants' waistline may be loose, but any revealing of my boxer-briefs is accidental, unintentional, and somewhat embarrassing.

I suppose I could qualify my children as my posse, but they were all conceived within the boundaries of wedlock, and I'm quite happily married to the woman I adore. I don't even suffer the temptation to pursue a booty call.

On the plus side, I do curse like I was born and raised in Philadelphia. Which I was. How authentic! On the down side, secondhand smoke - be it tobacco, weed, crack, or otherwise - makes me gag, and I value my physical condition too much to experiment smoking it firsthand.

Oh yeah. And I lack rhythm.

So it'll be awhile before I take my demo to any music producers.