His speakers shatter ear drums, kids.

Several months ago me and Mr. Keith were flipping through random songs on my Cypress Hill-themed radio station when to our hilarious surprise, an obscure rapper came on and started telling us of his Gold Plated Chops or Diamond Womens or something like that. We laughed at the song for a few minutes, imitating his probably inept use of sign language in a fashion that could only be described as “immature and a sure precursor to the nastiest of carpel tunnels”. Wiping the tears of what must have seemed like intense racism from our eyes, we took in the greatest word ever printed:

Chamillionaire

Now THIS, this man knew what the score was. Millionaire? Bah, too common. Billionaire? Naw, only fat guys and nerds get to be billionaires. This man is a Chamillionaire, which, uhh… I can only assume is a reference to the most unholy of shapeshifting hellspawn: The Chameleon.

And when this man chooses to devote himself to such an avatar of wickedness, he follows through, as his lyrics are filled with chamelleonic properties. A simple glance may reveal nothing but some inane jibba-jabba, but delving deeper we reveal layers and layers of complex subtext. Which brings us to:

THE WORDS BEHIND THE… UHH.. WORDS. SURE.

They see me rollin’
They hatin’
Patrollin’
And tryin. to catch me ridin. dirty. (Rep. x4)

I’m driving in my car. The police, who hate me because as a rich black man I am stereotyped as a man who commit crimes, are out and about on duty trying to discover my devious plan to drive without my liscence.

My music so loud;
I’m swangin.
They hopin’
That they gon’ catch me ridin’ dirty. (Rep. x4)

My car has an excellent speaker system, and I use it to its full potential by forcing everyone to listen to my hot thumping beats. And while this is a crime in that it disturbs the general public, the police do nothing as they are devoted to revealing my plot to drive without shoes, or perhaps without my seatbelt.

ma asss??
Police think they can see me lean;
I’m tint so it ain’t easy to be seen.
They see me ride by, they can see the glean
And my shine on the deck and the TV screen.
Ride with a new chick, she like “Hold up.”
Next to the Playstation controlla;
well have a four clip, in my pistolla
that im’a send a jacker into a coma.

How is my butt? The authorities believe that light reflects off of me and into their eyes, but I am black, so all light that hits me is absorbed into me, much like a black hole. All they are able to witness is the light reflected off of my TV. I ride with girls who don’t like me driving very fast, as they cannot play Playstation very well. As a result I get angry, which is okay because I have bullets in my Italian gun and I can shoot them at people with heroin addictions.

Girl, you ain’t know, I’m crazy like Krayzie Bone;
Just tryin’ to bone, ain’t tryin’ to have no babies.
Ride clean as hell so I pull in ladies.
Law’s on patrol; you know they hate me.
Music turned all the way up and to the maximum;
I can speak for some niggas tryin’ to jack for some.
But we packin’ somethin’ that we have
And, um, will have a nigga locked up in the maximum

Miss, you probably don’t know this, but I am quite the strange character, just like another rapper. I desire intercourse with you, but I can assure you it is for no reason but carnal pleasure. Fret not though, if you do not agree, I can pick up another fine woman, because my car does not make a lot of noise and has a well-tuned suspension. You see, the police are looking for crimes because they dislike me. Once again, I must remind you that my music is very loud. I know some of my brethren who do drugs intravenusly. Also, we have things that we own, and sometimes one of us gets sent to prison.

Security cell. I’m grippin’ oak.
Music loud and I’m tippin’ slow.
Twins steady twistin’ like hit this dough;
Police Pull up from behind and im sittin low.
Windows down, gotta stop pollution.
CDs change; niggas like “Who is that producin’?”
This the Play-N-Skillz when we out and cruisin’
Got warrants in every city except Houston
But I still ain’t losin’.

My car, you see, is armoured and can withstand the toughest of barrages. It is lined with fine oak, which is a luxury that I enjoy while listening to my unnecessarily loud music. While the music plays, I slowly nod my head sometimes. I really, ma’am, let me stress this , REALLY enjoy liccorice. This must wait though, as the authorities seem to have drove up behind my car. Luckily I’m down in my seat, or they would be able to see my hair. I keep my windows down, so as to not have to use the air conditioner. The next CD in my player is a mix that one of my brethren have never heard before, and he inquires upon the name of the producer. I answer that the rappers are the notorious Play-N-Skillz, and I always enjoy their songs when I drive. On an unrelated note, I have papers which allow me to do unspecified things in every city on the Earth except for Houston, Texas. Despite this, I maintain a high level of confidence in my abilities.

And on and on it goes. Like, seriously. It says the chorus about ten more times, and there are two more full verses. In any case, it is clear what he is trying to convey:

- He has a great car, equipped with one (1) woman and the things she needs to keep amused while he’s not boning her (TV, Playstation, etc.)
- The police dislike him, perhaps because of his wild hair.
- He likes to shoot heroin users, except for the one’s he knows.
- His speakers are very loud

Truly a modern day prophet if I ever saw one.