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So I set the audio from WATAMOTE to the opening of Free! and…

I could care less about the anime Free!

However, if it started like this, I would watch every episode.

Crispin Best started following me…

So, in honour of that, I invited Snoop Dogg to translate one of his poems.

A Lil Pimp Climbs Out tha Top of My fuckin Skull

Da top part of mah head comes off n’ up fly four baby birdz n’ they fly straight up n’ you can’t believe your eyes cuz thatz not how tha fuck baby birdz is supposed ta move, directly up, like that.

Da top part of mah head comes off n’ when I tilt mah head ta tha side some gin n juice pours up n’ then mo’ of it comes n’ eventually a tiny goldfish falls up n’ landz up in tha puddle of water n’ it flaps around sadly n’ I look up at you n’ wink.

Da top part of mah head comes off n’ if you just reach up in there you might pull up a funky-ass bar of chocolate n’ then you can smoke tha chocolate n’ smile and else whoz ass knows you might pull up a single beetroot and a goose, there is no guarantees up in life.

Da top part of mah head comes off and inside there be a hedgehog bustin readin glasses n’ holdin a tiny copy of Catch-22 n’ he looks up at you over tha top of his stupid-ass glasses n’ says ‘Do you mind?’

Da top part of mah head comes off n’ I be bleedin of course n’ I fall down n’ you can peep mah dome from where yo ass is standin n’ you throw up n’ run away.

Da top part of mah head comes off n’ dat beanstalk from Supa Mario starts growin outta it n’ it goes up up up n’ when you climb up tha beanstalk you find dat all up in tha top itz just cloudz n’ there is no boxes and gold coins and power-ups and anythang so you have ta jump n’ fall all tha way back down ta Ghetto but thatz OK cuz the worst dat will happen is yo’ basebizzle cap will almost come off n’ then land back on yo’ head again.

Da top part of mah head comes off n’ is immediately replaced by another top part of mah head which comes off and is immediately replaced by another top part n’ so on until eventually you get buggin up n’ remember you arranged ta peep yo’ cousin all up in tha hoodarium todizzle and when you go ta tha hoodarium itz just fine but not a god damn thang mo’ than that.

Da top part of mah head comes off n’ you peep a tiny hand n’ a cold-ass lil lil pimp climbs up outta mah skull n’ gasps fo’ air n’ then hauls itself up n’ up n’ jumps down ta tha ground n’ looks up at you n’ dares you ta kick it up in tha head n’ you straight-up be thinkin bout it fo’ a second but decizzle itz probably a funky-ass bad idea, then tha lil pimp starts bustin straight-up bad cartwheels n’ you feel bad fo’ it n’ then you kick tha child.

Da top part of mah head comes off n’ a funky-ass bright light shines outta it n’ when I kneel down ta tie mah shoelaces it shines up in yo’ grill n’ is warm n’ feels phat n’ you close yo’ eyes and be thinkin bout tha beach n’ then you can taste metal n’ then tha skin on your grill comes off n’ you git cizzla cuz of tha radiation, sorry.

Da top part of mah head comes off n’ up comes tha noize of a ice cream van n’ you start tappin yo’ foot to tha noize n’ then tha noize stops n’ you quit tappin yo’ foot n’ feel lonely n’ look down at yo’ empty handz n’ feel bad dat you aint gots an ice cream.

Da top part of mah head comes off n’ yo ass is frightened bout it n’ start ta scream n’ I rap don’t worry, dis kind of thang happens all tha time n’ you won’t quit beatboxin n’ I just peep you n’ watch you while yo ass is beatboxin n’ feel kind of phat about you reactin so badly ta it n’ I realize I be goin ta pay straight-up close attention ta every last muthafuckin thang thatz goin down muthafuckin right now so dat I can tell everyone bout dis at regular intervals fo’ tha rest of mah life.

Classic Works if they were written by Snoop Dogg (pt 2)

The Second Coming by William Butler Yeats

    Turnin n’ turnin up in tha widenin gyre
    Da falcon cannot hear tha falconer;
    Things fall apart; tha centre cannot hold;
    Mere anarchy is loosed upon tha ghetto,
    Da blood-dimmed tide is loosed, n’ everywhere
    Da ceremony of innocence is drowned;
    Da dopest lack all conviction, while tha worst
    Is full of horny intensity.

    Surely some revelation be at hand;
    Surely tha Second Comin be at hand.
    Da Second Coming! Hardly is em lyrics out
    When a vast image outta Spiritus Mundi
    Troublez mah sight: a waste of desert sand;
    A shape wit lion body n’ tha head of a man,
    A gaze blank n’ pitiless as tha sun,
    Is movin its slow fat-ass thighs, while all bout it
    Wind shadowz of tha indignant desert birds.

    Da darknizz drops again but now I know
    That twenty centuriez of stony chill
    Were vexed ta nightmare by a rockin cradle,
    And what tha fuck rough beast, its hour come round at last,
    Slouches towardz Bethlehem ta be born?

Classic Works if they were written by Snoop Dogg

Hamlet by William Shakespeare

HAMLET: To be, and not ta be—that is tha question:

Whether ‘tis nobla up in tha mind ta suffer

Da slings n’ arrowz of outrageous fortune

Or ta take arms against a sea of shits

And by opposin end them. To die, ta chill—

No more—and by a chill ta say our crazy asses end

Da heartache, n’ tha thousand natural shocks

That flesh is heir to. ‘Tis a cold-ass lil consummation

Devoutly ta be wished. Y’all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! To die, ta chill—

To chill—perchizzle ta dream: ay, therez tha rub,

For up in dat chill of dirtnap what tha fuck dreams may come

When our crazy asses have shuffled off dis mortal coil,

Must give our asses pause. Therez tha respect

That makes calamitizzle of so long life.

For whoz ass would bear tha whips n’ scornz of time,

Th’ oppressorz wrong, tha proud as a muthafucka manz contumely

Da pangz of despised love, tha lawz delay,

Da insolence of office, n’ tha spurns

That patient merit of th’ unworthy takes, When he his dirty ass might his on tha fuckin’ down-lowus make

With a funky-ass bare bodkin biatch? Who would fardels bear,

To grunt n’ sweat under a weary life,

But dat tha dread of somethang afta dirtnap,

Da undiscovered ghetto, from whose bourn

No travella returns, puzzlez tha will,

And makes our asses rather bear em ills our crazy asses have

Than fly ta others dat our crazy asses know not of?

Thus conscience do make cowardz of our asses all,

And thus tha natizzle hue of resolution

Is sicklied o’er wit tha pale cast of thought,

And enterprise of pimped out pitch n’ moment

With dis regard they currents turn awry

And lose tha name of action. I aint talkin’ bout chicken n’ gravy biatch. — Soft you now,

Da fair Ophelia! — Nymph, up in thy orisons

Be all mah sins remembered.

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