Kepper’s Tale

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Did I tell you the story?
When did I tell it?
Midnight, stormy night, drug-fueled night?
Alright, I’ll tell it again
Because I’m sure you can’t recall a damn
Thing
I
Fucking
Said.

Two months ago, here I am,
Rolling a joint from outer space
In the palm of my callused hand.
That type of shit Katt Williams joked about–
Hell, that type of shit he’s probably on.
The world started to get bent,
Whipped,
And, quite frankly, . . . tasty.
I wanted to snack on something.
Anything!
Maybe turn cannibal and eat my hand,
But my girl was rubbing my back
And nibbling on my ear,
So I ate something else,
Ya feel?

After our session of hazy love,
We sat back on the couch and watched —
As we always do on funky nights —
“Ru Paul’s Drag Race.”
And I swear to the God i don’t believe in
One of them began catwalking from the TV
In mother fucking 4-D.

I wasn’t prepared nor was my girl.
We looked like two vagrants from New York
(And not even close to the Upper East Side).
I blinked these brown eyes of mine
Maybe once, twice, or thrice times
And beheld the glory of Ru Paul–
Goddess/god of my favorite kind of world.
Dressed in Stiletto shoes, a Gucci dress
And of course, hair taken from Koreans,
He was looking as fierce as an unfed cat.

He took me by the had and said,
“Honey, you look like shit.
Come on, let’s make you a hit!”
I knew some fishy shit was going on
Because anyone who rhymes makes me feel
Suspicious.
Like you’re just trying to confuse me with
Cleverness.
But it was Ru-Paul, so I didn’t give a shit.

Ru took my girl and I to a land of
Drag queen im-ag-i-na-tion.
There were more high heels and fake tits
Than on a Hollywood director’s casting couch.
Fantastic wigs with the right crease,
Mascara strong enough to make lashes
Into the scrawniest kind of skyscrapers.
It was like gay Neverland —
Where no one gets old
And the fabulous reign forever.

Then suddenly,
Out of the worst type of nowhere —
Ya know the kind that sniffs out
And acts out the most despised parts of life —
Music starts to rumble the room.
Conga drums blare,
Horns blast through the air,
And I smell some shitastic cologne
Licking my nostrils like a rabid dog.

Yeah, it’s exactly who it sounds like:

Pitbull, Miami’s shame.

I wanted to bolt and save my girl,
But the shine on his damn head
Had her dolefully hypnotized.

Then out of the best type of nowhere–
Ya know, the kind that kills the bird
That insists on shitting on your new car–
A BB gun appeared in my hand.
I shot the bastard’s leg
And he disappeared into a gray puff
Of delicious, illegal Cuban cigar smoke.
Ru, I swear to a God I don’t believe in, said,
“I hate when he happens.”
See, I told you
No one
Likes the creepy bastard.

After this,
My girl and I landed,
Sadly,
Back in you-bore-me-for-fucksakes normal land.
We both smelled like Miami and hairspray–
And not even the fruity kind.

So,
Moral of the story:
Smoke weed
And you’ll live awesome shit.

Now,
Where’s that fucking bowl your promised?

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