Peace party peoples, it’s Eric B. checking in, once again. You’re probably thinking that it’s been a long East Elmhurst minute since I’ve stepped in the spotlight. And you’d be right in thinking that. Things done changed, youngblood. Back in the day this rap shit took a nigga clear across the globe. Out for ducats. Shines that could blind ya. And that sweet power-u that only a fussy Dominican waitress named Lola knows how to throw down. But sure as the good Lord above will one day cut out the lights on this cozy lil’ bachelor pad we call Planet Earth, Eric B.’s gotta lay in the cut and settle down far, far away from the fast life.
Now, you might be tempted say that I’ve earned a bit of a reputation as a, well how should I put it? A dangerous man. A scoundrel even. And you’d be right in saying that as well. The poo-putt, wet behind the ears, dry-dick whippersnappers of today betta recognize the force that was Eric B. In my day I was, how them old folks say? Persuasive. I wasn’t sipping Grand Marnierout of chalices alongside Alpo and Rich and Oran “Juice” Jones at the LQ solely on account of my fly custom Ballys. Those Main Source eskimo-ass wondertwin niggas and Mr. Coke-bottle glasses still shudder when “Chinese Arithmetic” comes on their ITunes. You think the great Eric B. does so much as bat a motherfuckin’ eyelid when he hears “Snake Eyes”? Sheeeeeeeeit, I might even sing along.
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