Today’s Cack: Big Boi of Outkast

This month’s Esquire magazine has an insert on p.138 quoting hip hopist Antwan André Patton a.k.a. Big Boi, wedged in the middle of a piece on the recent design history and car enthusiast’s perpetual love affair with BMW’s:

“I own about fourteen cars, but right now I’m driving a ‘64 Impala. It’s classic. And the sound system in it is crazy. I’ve got four six-by-nines in the back windows and two twelves in the trunk. I redid the carpet in there crimson red, and I have the old-school amps in the floor, so nobody can sit in the backseat. It has hydraulic switches, but they kept tearing up the driveshaft, so I had to take them off. So it’s really just a loooow-riiiide-uhhh. I’m in the process of building another house because I’ve run out of garage space.”

Reading this short but poignant insight into the mind of this American-Dream-come-true borne in my tiny noggin’ several very rapid and distinct insights of my own (at least 2 of which make me a photo finish 2nd place if not absolute tie for Today’s Cack):

a) “My first car was a beige ‘74 Impala with a dragging muffler literally hung from the back chassis by a MacGuyver’d knot of gray-black rope we found underneath the back porch one winter, with an AM radio powering a single front speaker beneath a mostly melted, obviously flammable oil-based dashboard from the time scotch blind Dad told someone it was an ashtray. Classic wasn’t exactly the first adjective that jumped to mind when I think of this great contributor to my disturbing lack of sex and high incidence of wedgies during high school. Fuck you Big Boi.”

b) “You’re a pop artist capitalizing off the belief of white America’s youth that your beat-fueled Top 40 poems of urban turmoil and lowwww-riiiiid-uuuuh’s are fueled by your membership in that elite culture known to the rest of us assholes as ‘from the streets’…and you’re talking about owning 14 cars and buying a new house just for the garage. FUCK YOU Bag Bot.

c) “I’m not only reading but projecting my own inadequacies about my station in life unto your harmless bullshit of a monologue due to the sole fact that I’m spending Sunday night in a 4-story walk up studio, listening to the crack head across the street vomit blood, lying in the closet on my twin box-springless mattress, reading an piece entitled “How BMW’s Z4 is like Angelina Jolie” in a magazine called Esquire when I can neither afford a car, much less a BMW, and am lusting after some freak result of plastic surgery who’s adopting brown orphans by the dozen just so she and her gay husband can have more real life dolls to give faux hawk’s and coffee enema cleanses to? FUCK YOU BEACH BORK.”

d) “Wow. Channeling this kind of anger towards folks I’ll never know can’t be healthy. And this whole Obama thing does seem to have folks pretty excited about the negroes. Wonder if I should even write about this?”

e) “How the fuck did Esquire get in my bathroom? Where’s my Genesis? Man. I hope I didn’t spend last night black out drunk and pleasuring myself to full color spreads of fat Sean Penn in Armani…again.”

f) “Hmmm. I wonder, is it spelled ‘negros’ or ‘negroes’? They both look right. Ah fuck it. I’ll probably get a letter bomb as a result of this post before I get time to load up Wikipedia.”