So apparently the new "it" thing among aspiting hip-hop artistes is to do all your business in free-form. You know, in case the guy you're calling happens to own a recording label.
Here's how a call went today at work (Identities have been changed to protect the silly):
Sven: Housing, this is Sven. Not me: Yo, how you doin' brother? Sven: Just peachy, how can I help you? Not me: Check it, I was wondering if you could check out my waitlist status for me (the dorms are horribly impacted, and you pretty much have to wait 2 quarters to get in) Sven: Uhhh, okay, could I get your name? Not me: Yo, this is Gbilla-zilla, mic thrilla, takin a chilla....to ask you how my wait status is. Sven:....Okay, so is "zilla" spelled with 2 Ls? Not me: Nah, G; my ID number is 3 to tha 5 to tha motherfarkin jive and the (further rappin cut to avoid betraying ID numbaz) Sven: Are those "2 thas" numerals or figures of speech? One moment (Enter hold and beaureaucratic wrangling) Sven: Okay sir I have you at number # Not me: Nah, yo. The Ho I talked tow said she'd got muh number bumped up because I applied early, you're givin me the hurly-burly, surely. Sven: I....suppose I am, let me check. (the obligatory hold and breakdance breakdown) Sven: Errr, yeah, she's on the phone, I'll have to give her a message and have her call you back, could I get your mumber? Not me: I'm in the XXX, yo, that's Pittsburg, CA, hey-ay, home of tha numba one killaz and tha dopest rhymez this side of compton. Sven: Ahh, thanks Gbilla-zilla, I'll give this to her post-haste. Not me: Coo, thanks G. Sven: Peace out, homey.
So he was actually a little more clever. But I'm a white guy, no way can I reproduce such phat beats. And it's not my fault, he's the one who had to rap at some guy 300 miles away.
