“Explicit lyrics here include ‘I will fuck you up so hard, ho, you’ll be shitting blood’ and ‘Your cunt smells like Hitler’s dirty little secret’,” the CEO explained to the rapper.
“Yo it sez explicit lyrics on dere, don’ it? Don’t make me shank ya!” the rapper replied.
The CEO didn’t understand a word the rapper was saying, so he just continued.
“We can’t put this in stores. You do get that, don’t you? Can you imagine the heat we’d take from women’s rights groups?”
“So U be just looking fo’ an excuse ta not give a brudda uh chance 4 a big break?”
“You h8-in’ on a nigga?”
“Unless I’m mistaken, that’s neither accurate nor English.”
“Yo ah’m an artist. U can’t censor an artist and shit!”
The rapper was getting so agitated he left the fashionable chair and started pacing up and down the mohair carpet, his trousers barely clinging to his hips.
“Look, I’m willing to admit that I might have made a mistake by green lighting the album. Your producer was lyrical. I was handling the merger. I should have paid more attention perhaps.”
“4 shizzle! U wants 2 pay attention? Start listenin’ 2 da beats. Dat’s da bomb thin’ you’ll hear all year. Peep this raz, dawg!”
“This clearly is not getting resolved today.”
“Da album iz 2 be releas’d an’ dat’s da final werd. Don make me pull mah gat!”
“Why don’t you try another hobby? Make a movie?”
“But rapping iz what ah wuz born ta do!”
“Go on. Try directing. I’ll pay for it.”
“Okay then,” the rapper said, pulling his pants up. “I’m thinking ten million should cover principal photography.”
The CEO pulled out his chequebook.
Fucking deadbeat white-boy son, he thought.
Did you enjoy this story? Then why not try the 101 stories in 300 words or less in YOU’RE GETTING SLEEPY, THE HYPNOTIST’S APPRENTICE YAWNED.