There is an evil inside of me. It is brooding and malevolent and vicious. It is absolute darkness. It is rotting my body on a cellular level. And it is there because I thought a bad idea (getting a burrito at the mall right before it closed) was a good idea (“HEY, LET'S GET A BURRITO FROM THE MALL BEFORE IT CLOSES”).
If I had to guess, I'd say The Evil is located somewhere in the upper third of my small intestine. If I had to make another guess: The Evil will not be contained for much longer. It will break free and it will do so with a startling velocity. Best case scenario: It goes downward rather than upward. Worst case scenario: Send my mother a folded-up flag*.
It feels like Plies is recording his next album in there. It feels like Ludacris is in there with those big arms from the “Get Back” video trying to punch his way out. It feels like Nicki Minaj's lace front wigs are all arguing with each other in there. It feels like Trinidad James' teeth are in there just hanging out and hitting on women. It feels like Kanye and Kim's baby is hosting a party in there.
It feels like J. Cole and Diggy are trying to get people interested in their beef with one another in there. It feels like the last eighteen months of Lil Wayne's career in there. It feels like when rappers post something fun on Twitter and then say their account was hacked. It feels like every** athlete's rap record of all-time is in there, but more specifically it feels like Tony Parker's is. It feels like Chief Keef's Instagram is in there. It feels like the Insane Clown Posse is in there with several of their friends talking about politics or face painting or the politics of face painting.
It feels like Dr. Dre is filming his next Dr. Pepper commercial in there. It feels like all of the girls from Flavor Flav's Flavor of Love are having a picnic in there. It feels like Young Buck is in there trying to get 50 Cent on the phone again.
It feels like Canibus is trying to hide his rap notebook in there. It feels like all of the albums that Kreayshawn didn't sell are in there. It feels like V-Nasty is in there just saying “nigga” over and over and over again. It feels like how it'd probably feel if you had to write down a speech by E-40 as he was giving it. It feels like Drake and Chris Brown are in there throwing bottles at each other over Rihanna in there. IT FEELS LIKE RIHANNA IS IN THERE.
It is very*** likely that by the time you read this I will be dead, that my body will have been drained of all of its everything, my spirit pulled out through my butt in the what can only be described as the least noble, most appropriate death of all.
If that's the case, know that I lived a mostly happy, generally moral life, and that I am survived by my wife and three sons. And know that it was all worth it.
If I'm not dead though, if I've survived through the night, then know that there is a deity of some sort in the universe, for only The Righteous can battle The Evil.
Only The Righteous can battle Rihanna.
*They do that when bloggers die, right? Or is that only soldiers? Send her a bunch a keyboard keys then, I guess. Real classy, guys.
**To be fair, Shaq was not totally terrible. And newbies Iman Shumpert and Stephen Jackson have shown themselves capable.
***Not very likely.