Don’t Drink and Drake
As a woman who tends to fancy herself men who are generally classified as ruffnecks, I have grown from merely tolerating the music of the confused Canadian to despising it with most of the fibers of my being. I have left some fibers to hate Justin Bieber, Nicki Minaj, and Turkey bacon.
Nevertheless, most of my hate at this time is reserved for Drake. Yes Drake, our beloved DeGrassi High star confined to a wheelchair. We should have paid more attention to the signs then. His voice, ever so soft, softer than clouds wrapped in down feathers wrapped in ballerina tutus. His hairline reaching and escalating to his curly black hair… His never ending quest to be accepted as one of the regular and cool kids. Needless to say, perhaps this wasn’t such a stretch or challenge in acting. Clearly, this is this fool’s real life.
I’m going to need Drake’s to man up. I’m going to need him to play football, I’m going to need him to drink more whiskey, I’m going to need his balls to drop. No grown man should be crying this much on a song…no change that, in life. It is okay to be in touch with your emotions and feelings, but why do you have to go into a closet and cry about it in every Damn song. And then you have the audacity to put it on wax and sell it to the masses.
Is this really the state of Hip-hop? Half singing and whining on songs? Drake has to be the distant nephew of Keith Sweat. Or the Love child of Howard Hewitt and Babyface. You can’t tell me any different. Now yes, I know what you’re thinking, didn’t LL Cool J make songs about love and such? Yes, but LL doesn’t look like a velociraptor with a lacefront wig. At least LL is attractive.
Now Drake is making it bad out here for all light skinned men everywhere. Now people think all you fair skinned brothers want to do is cry over organs and violins playing in the background while LeBron James holds you wiping your tears with silk handkerchiefs and you cry together and fall asleep spooning. I know this is not the case for 75% of ya’ll. That other 25% is shaky. I’m just saying.
So go ahead, keep buying Drake’s albums, crying in the dark, thinking of old ex girlfriends, drinking Remy Martin with a Moscato chaser. All that’s gonna happen is you’re going to hit her up and she is going to laugh at your goofy a** for quoting the little boy who went to Canadian Jewish School…at least that’s what I would do.