If the photo next to my name didn’t give it away already, I have
a confession to make–I am a man of the “Caucasian persuasion” who
feels compelled to share my observations about the wonderful world
of rap music with society at large. Despite my inherent lack of
pimp juice, I feel uniquely qualified to do so. I’ve tossed back a
40-ouncer or two in my day, have seen Scarface enough times
to start my own business and just might request “Nuthin’ But a G
Thang” at my funeral. Needless to say, I keep it real.

One of the worst things about being a fan of the old school
rappers was that they liked to swear … a lot. It’s not that I’m
offended by foul language. Some of those terms are among the most
versatile in the English language, and I can’t imagine relating a
decadent weekend adventure without a few dozen four-letter
words.

Radio disagrees. Back in the old days of rap music, the
naughtiest parts of the song were lost to bleeps or total silence.
Then came the “radio edit.” This revolutionary concept in rap music
allowed songs to be played virtually unedited by removing the
vowels from a given swear word. Snoop Dogg furthered this trend by
practically inventing his own language of “hizzles fo’ shizzle.”
Censors were baffled.

Unfortunately, this leniency seems to have reversed itself in
recent days, claiming one of the Lou’s brightest stars in the
process. It was a sad day indeed when I heard the song on Cleveland
radio during Christmas break. Granted, I wasn’t expecting to hear
about Chingy’s pot-puffing antics while driving up Natural Bridge
Road, but when the dreaded bleep was applied to the rapper
mentioning his beloved Hennessy Cognac, I could barely believe my
ears. These Puritan censors even removed Ching-a-ling’s account of
buying a 12-pack of Corona to compliment his potent sack of
marijuana.

If this teetotaling logic were applied to traditional rock
music, George Thorogood would no longer be able to sing about
drinking alone–be it bourbon, scotch or beer. Shame on these playa
haters. As a lifelong suburbanite, I am proud to say that I live
vicariously through these rappers. My real-life fears of jail time
(confirmed by countless rap songs about life in the state
penitentiary) disappear the second I hear a good tune. All of a
sudden, I’m magically transported to a land where I’m swigging
Cristal by the bottle, and all the ladies want to party with the
Notorious J.M.B.

So listen up America–keep the cannabis growing and the
Courvoisier flowing in my rap music. Until rock stars start acting
like rock stars again, rap music seems to be the sole forum for
sex, drugs and 22-inch rims in pop culture. Now if you’ll excuse
me, I believe Dr. Giggles, the Big Snoop Dizzle and I have eight
shorties to handle.

Jon Butler is a junior studying communication.