A Worthy Republish

Last week I looked up this blog on Gizoogle.net. Not all posts were available, however, my feature about Grace was available to run through the Gizoogle filter. I was so pleased with the results that I decided to Republish some of it here. To see the original Grace feature, click below.

Introducing…Grace St. Clair

The original is awesome in it’s own right. But let’s read the Grace feature ran through the Gizoogle filter and converted into Snoop Dogg dialect. I did this copy job on a phone, and was forced to do the paste in small little chunks. Thus, I hope someone enjoys this as much as I do. I am damn tempted to do the same thing with Holly’s work.

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Grace Filtered by Gizoogle:

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Todizzle be all bout Grace.  

At times she’s reflectizzle (borderin on philosophical), other times she’s sarcastic n’ humorous.  Above all, Grace writes a shitload of tha dopest poetry I’ve seen. 

Below I’ve highlighted some passages from Blogger dat I enjoy:

“If you live any amount of time up in a place you pick up tha local lingo. I’ve lived a shitload of different places but certainly never lost mah natizzle lingo n’ have often found mah dirty ass tryin ta explain what tha fuck I’m tawkin’ about.

Our local mini-mart is owned by Hindu people, ghetto unknown, n’ when I looted mah lottery ticket tha other dizzle tha gentleman holla’d, “Don’t forget our asses when you win”. I holla’d, “From yo’ lips ta God’s ears” yo. Dude looked all up in mah grill funky.”

“It’s a odd feelin – phantom hair.
Fluffin afro dat isn’t there,
I have no vibe of despair.
It will return, I have no diggity.
Until it do, I’ll do without.”

“My fuckin ‘conversations’ wit tha cats:
Is you crazy?
Must you be everywhere I am?
What have you gots now?
Do you want tha cheese or not?
Move yo’ fat butt.
Leave her A-lone biaatch! Didn’t I just rap ta git down, biatch? Am I not bustin lyrics?
Git OFF!”

“When I say ridin – I mean lil playas would gather all up in tha candy store, take up all tha stools all up in tha counter, order a cold-ass lil coke n’ basically act like fools. Which teenagers do. Periodically there would be a funky-ass brou-ha-ha n’ all tha lil playas would git thrown up n’ possibly banned fo’ all dem days. In which case they would migrate ta tha other candy store – but dis was not always a phat solution cuz Jack n’ Ruby always knew which lil playas they had thrown up – so if you gots banned from Jack’s, Ruby would know n’ da thug wouldn’t let you in, up in which case yo’ hood game was screwed until you apologized.”

“I was struttin home from work dis afternoon n’ I was stopped dead up in mah tracks by tha graceful antics of two lil’ small-ass butterflies – they flew close ta tha ground – win ta wing; swoopin n’ gliding; then chasin each other wit tha smalla one gettin under tha wing of tha larger one so they looked as if they was one; they tumbled all up in tha air, tossin theyselves bout n’ then they parted n’ flew off up in opposite directions.
And I stood there wit a gangbangin’ foolish smile on mah grill while traffic rushed round mah crazy ass n’ and tha lunch time diners gave me strange looks as I stood stock still watchin dis incredible gift.”

“We piled outta tha theatre, hopped up, excited, straight-up jazzed. Y’all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! As we made our way down tha street, without forethought or planning, we fuckin started ta dance, snappin our fingers n’ rappin – “When you’re a Jet, you’re a Jet all tha way, From yo’ first blunt ta yo’ last dyin day”

Us playas jostled round n’ reformed ta rap – “Gee Officer Krupke, what tha fuck is we ta do, biatch? Gee, Officer Krupke, Krup You!”

We settled, n’ strutted n’ then one of mah thugs started ta rap – “Could be, Dum diddy-dum, here I come biaaatch! Who tha fuck knows, biatch? There’s suttin’ due any dizzle I’ma know right away Soon as it shows…” 15 dope, dope teenage voices joined in. I aint talkin’ bout chicken n’ gravy biatch. One of tha thugs ran ahead, leapt onto a light pole, ala Gene Kelly up in ‘Singin up in tha Rain”, one arm wrapped round tha pole, tha other flung up n’ up …and we busted – “It may come cannon-ballin’ down from tha sky, Gleam up in its eye, Bright as a rose. Dum diddy-dum, here I come biaaatch! Who tha fuck knows?”

“I hear noize up in mah head, dat no one else can hear.
Da disc jockey keeps a steady beat;
the turntablist throws a riff
While tha sax playa blows it long n’ low –
it finally hits mah Nikes.

A shuffle, then a funky-ass bump, a swing,
as hips go side ta side
And then tha trumpet sidlez up in n’ I begin ta glide.”

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heh heh. The bit featuring the teenage days is priceless.

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