On a summer eve last week, I caught my eldest son, Rusty, listening to this god foresaken jungle music. The jungle boogy's pulses disrupted my evening in the delta. The sepia tones muted by the "rockin' bass overtones." My poor Rusty, he now occupies himself with schemes of procuring hoes and 40s. I long for a cure for my son, the son who dreamed of wranglin' cattle and serenading fair maidens in the moon light. Now, the only moon in his life is the moon shine that he procured in lieu of malt liquors. Your rap music made him steal his pappy's moon shine. This rap music is perverse in mind and body. I listened to Dr. Dre's "The Chronic" in its entirety. I was appalled. I think that Thug Fancy should write articles about more traditional things, pick up trucks for instance. If you continue to spew this filth, please include the disclaimer: Warning, Thug Fancy may contain material intended for unChristian audiences and Protestant reformers.
Farewell,
Rusty's Mom
Dear Rusty's Mom,
We appreciate your letter. We commend you for your convicitions. However, we propose that you take the hint from your holy book and exodus. Rap may be opposed to your personal blend of christianity. For that reason, we submit that, perhaps, the Bible, upon which you thump, be adhered to the same sticker, "may contain material intended for unChristian audiences and Protestant reformers." At the very least, we could accept responsibilty. You, responsible for your kid. Thug Fancy, responsible for keepin' it real. Protectorate of the realness, much like the nobleman, Sir-Mix-Alot.